


Mnemophobia

by cambria



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, Great Hiatus, My First Work in This Fandom, Other, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:56:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cambria/pseuds/cambria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weight of lives lived can grow to be too great for one mind. Where many, most, forget, some remember, if only vaguely. Others have those memories forced upon them. But when you haven't a single life lead that has been merciful and peaceful, how does one cope with such horrifying death?</p><p>Follows a girl whose genetic memory is complimentary to Desmond's. Not very romantic. Mostly centered around my nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mνημοσύνη

**Author's Note:**

> Mnsemosyne, goddess of memories. Root of the word Mnemophobia, the fear of memories. When a mnemophobic begins remembering past lives, death of the soul is imminent. The only way to save yourself is to feel not only your own pain, but that of everyone before you.

> _Mnemosyne. I pray to you at night to resolve my differences with my past. Do not make me forget. If nothing else, make me learn._

  
Night.

My room is silent. It feels foreign to me, now. I have been watching videos of the Crusades for hours. My computer's battery is dying. I reach to the floor, to the cord I know is there. I search nimbly for the hole which accommodates the plug, and soon my computer runs on external power. The exclamation point in my bar disappears, and I'm left with plenty more hours of movies. I cried for three hours. I was never able to cope with death. On a large scale, such as the Holocaust, death makes me stop breathing. Literally, I curl up on myself and feel as though I'm having a seizure. It isn't very pleasant; it can sometimes be painful. I got used to it, however, and now these fits of empathy do not mean much. They do not affect me as they should.

The music playing in the background comes from my desktop computer. Reminiscent of church choirs, violins and perchance riffs of electric guitar come into the mix. It makes me euphoric, listening to it. My body shivers in delight; music is my blood.

My room is small. The desk it a mere two feet away from the foot of my bed. The latter is shoved into the far right corner, when you enter my room. The television armoire is in the far left corner, after the closet door. A small lamp sits there. It's for my mother. She does not like it when I watch movies in the dark, on such a small screen. It dimly lights my room, enough to that I can see the keyboard, the clothes on the floor. Maybe that is why this room feels strange. I am not used to it being lit in such a way.

I set my headphones on the bed besides me. I paused the movie I was watching, unable to endure much more. I do not curl up and gasp for air this time. I am emotionally exhausted. I cannot feel anything anymore. It is apathy. It is something I have never felt before, and though it is welcome, it does not feel right.  
The computer sits in front of my abdomen. I lay on my side, staring down at it. I lay my head on my outstretched arm, probing a bruise on it with my right hand. I do not wince, but wonder where it came from. I close my eyes, tears still streaming, over my nose, down my temple, onto the sheets of my bed. So much death for such an unnecessary thing… Mankind was always a mystery to me.

My foot accidentally brushes the tall nightstand by the head of my bed, underneath the window. I knocked over an empty glass. The sound makes my heart race, possibly skipping a beat, but my room regains its peace soon enough. I look out the window, only to find I cannot see. It is covered in condensation, liquid and frozen. It is winter. Snow covers the land, the streets are covered in ice. I leave one windowpane partly open; I have two panes. The outer one remains closed, the inner is open. Outside the two is a screen, to prevent bug from entering. Leaving my window like that is enough to cool my room, which is unusually warm all year long.

I can vaguely see the blurred form of lit Christmas lights, outside my window. It is mid-December, nearing Christmas. I can see the blurred shape of the street outside, some ten, fifteen meters away. I can make out the faint glow of a lamp post, but not much of it. An old bed sheet covers all but five inches of the window. I had rolled it up a bit so the cool air could flow in more easily. I used a bed sheet for the light it gave my room in the morning. It is a golden, warm tone. It makes me lazy in the morning, but it is beautiful.

I close my eyes, noticing my breathing has slowed to an acceptable rate. I assume that my mind is slightly more at ease; apathy makes it difficult to say anything for certain. At my feet is a duvet. I manage to pull it higher, to rest at my hips. I sigh contently, if I could afford to use such an expression. I am uncertain if content is in the range of emotion I can feel. I brush it off, dismissing the entire thing.

Suddenly, my mind is bombarded with images of fire, burning houses and women. I curl up on myself, tightly, and simply stop breathing. The images flash into my head, one after the other. Sometimes, I see men being hung. Other times, I see women at stakes. Rarely, I see children being drowned, heavy bricks tied to their ankles. I do not cry. These images instill more fear and horror than they do sympathy or sorrow. I cannot tell how long I lay there, on my bed, curled up, seeing images of things I have never seen. It feels like an eternity. Eventually, my room reappears, feeling even more foreign than it ever has. My body feels like a stranger's. My very being feels completely new. And I feel as though this night is the beginning of a new life. I finally gasp for air, my lungs burning with an empty fire. I rush to my window, pressing my visage against it. I feel feverish. It feels like molted rock is coursing through my veins, like my blood is coming to a boil. It is not painful. It is, if anything else, almost ecstatic. However I do not like this feeling, as it often comes with the desire for bloodshed. That is a part of me I cannot deny; I crave war, at times. I resent myself for that. But I cannot change who I am, and so I cope with the fact that I partly enjoy harming others.

My room grows silent at that point. My music player is changing songs. For two, three seconds, it feels as though Fate is punishing me for being who I am. Like She resents that I, in the confines of my being, may appreciate inflicting pain. I agree with the punishment, almost disappointed when it ends.

I resume my preceding position on my bed. I decontract my muscles, relaxing every inch of my body. I prepare myself to fall asleep in a very awkward position. I imagine what my mother will say when I will tell her I have a kink in my neck. I imagine her condescending tone, with a hint of amusement behind it all. I imagine myself saving legions of men from slaughter. I see myself with wings of heavenly white, descending on mankind to protect it from itself.

My mind wanders, and I begin drifting into a light slumber.

I hear metal scraping against metal. It is a quiet, dimmed sound. I assume is it part of the soundtrack I am listening to, though I cannot remember hearing that sound before. There is the faint sound of cutting through fabric, and my mind begins to race. I am half asleep, and I try to reason with myself that this may be a hallucination. Or perhaps my brother has taken to a new activity I am unaware of. I grope for an answer that makes some form of sense, but I find too many to choose any one reason.

I hear the sound of metal against metal again, and my heart begins to race. My eyes are still closed. I am scared to open them, for fear of what I may discover stands before me. I did not hear the floorboards creak or whine, but my imagination is faster than I am.

Now, I can discern with certainty the sound of my window, sliding in its rail. I am scared: this is my worst nightmare. I fear for my life. I want to cry out, to scream and thrash and run for my life, but fear paralyzes me. I cannot move. I cannot even curl up in myself and gasp for air. My arms and legs are frozen in place.

The first window stops moving. I hear a sigh, and cold air rushes down on my skin. I shiver, but control the motion. I do not want to move too noticeably.

The second, inner window begins to slide. I hear the snapping of the threads of the screen. Someone is tearing the screen open as they open the window. More cold air rushed into my room. There are no snowflakes. I am grateful for that, somehow.

I hear the clanking of many things and I hear the rails of the window groaning. There is a heavy weight at the head of my bed, the deft, slight clatter of plastic glasses on my nightstand. A foot touches the floor; it creaks only the faintest bit. I hear my nightstand being moved. My heart is still racing. I feel my eyes tear up, now. I feel the water rush to the sheets I am resting on. I still cannot move. I bite back the sobs. I do not want to make a sound. I do not want to move anymore.

Then, a calloused, gloved hand on my mouth.

I instinctively scream, and my entire body seems to shake off centuries of slumber. My limbs are sore and ache horribly. I claw at the hand at my mouth, biting and nipping in vain at the glove there. The reassuring, whispered words fall on deaf ears. I do not want to die. I scream and thrash, and eventually fatigue rules me. It is late. I cannot move anymore. Terror wrings my limb of all strength.

Several seconds pass, and the hand is lifted. I sob freely now, clinging to the comforter on my bed. I try to dry my tears, but my efforts are wasted.

"Shhh." he says. The voice is typically masculine, and sounds genuinely kind. I do not let myself be deceived, although my mind is desperate for a reason to hope for safety. "It's fine. It's alright. Shhh. I won't hurt you. Calm down. Don't… Shhh. Don't cry."

And so it went on for minutes that felt like forever. A hand rubbed my arm in a motion the man had probably meant to be comforting. The more time passed, the more he sounded pressed. I eventually stopped sobbing, risking opening my eyes.

A calm face greeted me alongside a lopsided, scarred smile. My breath caught in my throat; I had not expected such kindness on that man's face. I had not expected to live so long as to be able to notice the dark age artillery strapped to him.

"Come on, you have to get up." The man told me, trying to get me to sit up. I was in shock, I noticed, unable to think straight or move on my own accord, let alone speak. "I'm going to take you somewhere safe, okay?" The man added, and I'm not quite sure how I manage to stand on my legs. I was sure my legs had turned to dust, had been blow away with the wind coming from my window.

I stare at the man in awe. He is taking me to a safe place. I feel like I should laugh, because that statement is ironic in the current situation. But I cannot will my mouth to open, if only to take in large gulps of air. The man stares at me, expecting me to move. When I do not, he sighs.

"Pick up what you need. We don't have much time. What you need, and only that." He instructs me, his voice kind though a little more tense than before. I cannot say why I can discern tones in voices, when I cannot think straight. I am baffled. But I obey and grab my nearest messenger bag. I quickly grab my computer, its power cord, as well as my phone and its charger. I take a notebook and pen, two pair of glasses out of the four I owned, and grab my wallet. I reach for the drawers of the television armoire, where my jeans are, but the man carefully informs me I do not have the time to change. I reluctantly listen, finding it highly inconvenient to venture out in flannel plaid pants.

I reach into my already open closet and pull out my trench coat, pull out my boots and give one last look at my room. I try to make sure I've got the strict necessities. Quickly, I grab my deodorant and vanilla body spray, before buttoning up my coat and zipping up my boots.

"I-I-I think I'm ready." I stutter, my voice louder than I mean it to be.

"Good. Let's go. We don't have a lot of time left." The man says, climbing out my bedroom window into the snow-covered flowerbed right below it.

"What about my family? My brother and mom and dad and dog and cat? I can't…"

The man cuts me off. "They've already been taken over there." I hear a car start and drive off, its headlights vaguely making the ice on the road glimmer. "Come on, I told you, we don't have a lot of time."

When I climb out the window, the first thing I notice is the car parked in front of my home of 10 years. I instantly recognise it as being a Lamborghini; the symbol on the front of the car is a testament to that. My breath once more hitches in my throat, and I freeze halfway through the front lawn.

"That's your car?!" I exclaim, louder that I know I should have. But I am amazed, shocked, in pure awe and envy. Lamborghini-brand cars never run for under several hundreds of thousands of dollars, and the recent ones are most likely in the millions. I cannot fathom what kind of man can come to own such a car. Eventually, the man drags me forward.

"Yes, that's my car. Please, hurry. We need to get away from here." He urges me forward, opening the passenger door. I eagerly clamber on inside, relishing the heat, throwing my bag in the backseat.

The instant the man enters the car, he hits the gas. There is a stop sign at the corner of the street, only three houses away. At the sign, I notice a glimmer of orange behind us. I turn around in my seat, but the man's hand roughly shoves me back into a proper position.

"No, let me see!" I shout, filling the car with anxious tones. "What's happening? I want to know what's going on!"

"They're setting your house on fire." The man says, his voice clearly tense. "They were aiming to kill your entire family in your sleep."

Horror. Terror.

I do not see the houses go by. I do not notice the speed the man is driving at, either. I do not register the direction in which we are going. He speaks to me, but I hear nothing. I do not listen. My home is burning down. I was meant to die tonight. My mind cannot wrap itself around the concept.

_I am meant to be dead._

Who could hate my family and I so much? We've never done anything wrong. We've never crossed anyone, nor offended anyone to such a point.

Why me?

A hand shakes my shoulder. I force myself to listen. The man presents himself as Desmond. The name is not familiar. He says my name is Jordan. I think about asking why he knows my name, but no words come out. He says we're going to the airport, and there, we'll fly down to the United States.

"Planes?" I croak, fear coating every letter and sound. Desmond turns to look at me for a split second, but otherwise his eyes are riveted on the road. I understand that. Being covered in ice as they are, I would not look away from them, either.

"We don't have a choice. It'll be faster. They probably already know who saved your asses by now." Desmond replies through clenched teeth, just barely making it before a red light.

"Who are they? Where are we going? Why was I last?" I ask, only letting out a fraction of all the questions running through my mind. I also find myself wondering why my vocal chords are suddenly functional.

"I'll explain it once we get the… Once we get off the plane in New Jersey." Desmond goes on saying he doesn't know how long it'll take to get there. He did not book the flights. He says Lucy did everything for everyone. He says she's a wonderful person, Lucy, and that I'll probably like her.

Desmond talks about everyone he knows. He calls them all brothers and sisters, when he talks of them. I'm puzzled, but I don't ask any questions. I figure that I'll be told that everything will be explained in New Jersey. While Desmond talks, my eyes wander. At first, I simply stare outside. We're already in downtown Montreal, and I wonder when we crossed the Mercier bridge. I don't recognise anything despite my best effort. I redirect my attention to the driver.

My eyes roam around, and I make a point of remembering to ask Desmond about the scar on his lip. My eyes travel downward. It doesn't take long before I notice the odd gauntlet on his left arm. I open my mouth to ask about it. As I begin to for the first syllable, images begin flashing in my head.

_Standing behind a building, looking out on men being slaughtered. Standing on top of a tower, admiring the view of a city I've never seen. Walking around in a castle that looks too magnificent to be real._

My head begins to explode in pain, and I'm somehow baffled as to why my brain is still inside my skull. It feels like something is trying to break out of my head. I curl up in the seat and scream in pain, grasping my head with both hands. I smash my head first against the window. That somewhat relieves the pain, but the images keep coming. I hit my head against the dashboard, where the glove compartment is. I hit it repeatedly, the pain ebbing away too slowly.

The last image is the most striking one. It engulfs me whole. I am no longer Jordan. I am no one. I am an onlooker.

_I see a man, standing in the middle of a beautiful courtyard. He is dressed in white ropes. He wears much of the same apparel I am used to seeing. A hood covers his head. I cannot see his face though he stands facing my direction. He holds a golden object in his hand. It is wrinkled, and I now know he is not as young as I had originally though. The golden orb begins to rise in the air. There is a burst of light. Amidst it, a blue flame. I am blinded for several seconds. When my eyes allow me to see clearly, I see the man's body slump to the ground. I hear myself screaming, pleading, begging. Tears stream down my cheeks. I am destroyed._

Desmond calls me back to myself. I am Jordan. I am seventeen years of age. I live in Canada. I finished high school last year, and I live in the year 2009. I am me again. I am tangible, not a memory that isn't quite a memory.

I sit still for a moment, waiting for unconsciousness to claim my mind, but nothing comes. I sit motionless. I stare into space, straight ahead of me. I notice the car isn't moving; we've stopped on the side of the road somewhere. I blink. My mouth is agape. I do not know what to say or what to ask.

Desmond takes a shaking breath. He tries to hide his fear, but I feel it. I can taste it in the air. It's almost toxic.

"It hurts, Desmond." I croak, bringing a hand to my forehead. I find it bleeding. I am not surprised. I wonder how many times I hit my head for it to bleed. I wonder if Desmond knwos I am not talking about my head. The pain is not physical. Does he know that?

"I know, Jordan, I know." Sugar-coated lies.

The car starts again. I know who Desmond is, now. That old man bore too big a resemblance for me to ignore it.

"Why me, Desmond?" I ask pitifully, bringing my knees up to my chest. This would have been hard in any other car, but I find the Lamborghini to be quite spacious. "Why do I have to be like this? Why do I have to see these things? I feel like killing myself."

Desmond's breath catches in his throat. I relish the change of tides. "Because no one else can handle it like you do." He whispers. It sounds as though he's trying to convince himself rather than explain it to me. "Anyone else would go batshit crazy with that kind of stuff. Your empathy saves you. That's why."

It is enough for me to be content with at the moment. I ask for him to stop the car for a moment. He asks why. I explain I want to sleep on the backseat. Reluctantly, Desmond agrees, and I fall asleep resting my head on my messenger bag, and dream of having smores around the fireplace in the basement of a house that no longer exists.


	2. ἀπάθεια

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apatheia. I cannot feel the emotions I once did. My vase has been emptied before it could overflow. Free me again.

The car does not bounce as I thought it would. The suspension on the car is better than I was expecting. It's a miracle it is still functioning. The roads in Quebec are very hard on cars. I had expected such an expensive automobile to crumble under the unusual stress. I suppose one should not underestimate them. You get what you pay for, or so they say. With no harsh bumps, I fall into a heavy slumber quickly. My dreams are vague. I have no recollection of non-existent memories. There is only myself and the water. There are boats in the distance. Nets being thrown. The pungent smell of fish on the docks. I remember that from when I was younger. My parents had brought me down to Gaspé. I was amazed by the fishermen. I was easily amazed, at that time. I would like to believe I still am.

The street lights pass over my eyelids. I cover my face with my arm. I open my eyes. I do not know how much time has gone by. As I regain consciousness, I notice the distant sound of planes. I assume we are getting closer to the airport in Dorval. I sit up on the back seat and yawn.

"You slept for about two hours." I hear Desmond say. He answers a silent question I did not think about asking. His eyes are still glued to the road. Though there is much less ice here, it is snowing.

I stare out the car window at my feet. I do not want to properly sit up. The snowflakes pass us by fast. It feels like they are zooming by, hurrying to get somewhere. As Desmond brings the car to a stop, I notice the snowflakes fall slower. It's like they're frozen in the air. It seems as though they're stuck in a momentum; like the snowflakes stop time themselves. Perhaps they want to take more time to enjoy their fall. Maybe they want to appreciate their lives to the fullest before the hit the groun.  
For a second, I wish I could join them and stop time as well. I wish I could step outside and go back home and go back to sleep in my bed. I wish that I could wake up tomorrow morning and drink a cup of coffee with my parents. I do not know where I am going now. I only know that I am going to New Jersey. I do not know why I was taken from my home. I think about asking Desmond, but I know that the answer will be the same as it has been; "You'll know when we get there". I am not satisfied with that, but it will have to do for now.

The streetlights zoom past me again and the snowflakes are no longer stuck in mid-air. I am sad for a moment, but that is quickly replaced with nausea. I take deep breaths to quell the feeling. I tell myself it won't be long, that I am almost there. I ask Desmond if we're near, and he says I would know more than him. But I don't know at all. I close my eyes again.  
I suddenly jerk my entire body. I remember my phone, and my mp3 player in my bag. I make an effort to sit up and reach for the black messenger behind my head. I carefully pull on a wire I know to be my earphones. My player follows closely behind. I put the buds in my ears and carefully select a song I know will make me dream peacefully.

I close my eyes again.

I hope my family is safe. If Desmond says they are…

———————————————————————————————————————————————————

I open my eyes when I feel my legs grow cold. I am in the airport. I cannot hear the crowds. The song on my mp3 player is loud and on repeat. I sit up straight and yawn, trying to shake the slumber out of my body.  
I see Desmond making his way back towards me with his hands in his pockets. I notice he's pulled the hood of a sweater over his head. I wonder why in silence. He waves at me with a small smile. I wave back tiredly. I tug on a wire and one of the earbuds pops out.

"Slept well?" He asks as he sits next to me. I give a short nod, not really able to say anything. "I damn hope so. You weren't exactly a feather to carry, y'know."

I feel my face heat up at this. I am very self conscious. Desmond notices that I lower my head and profusely apologises. I shake him off, saying that it isn't a big deal, that women don't always get offended for stupid little things like that. It is true that I think that, and I am not offended, though…  
I ignore it. I look around at the people walking around.

"When are we leaving?" I ask quietly. I don't need to speak loudly. Because it's fairly late in the night, there isn't much of a crowd. The noise is kept to a minimum. My tired body is not helped by this.

"They should start calling us in half an hour I think." Desmond answers back, putting his hands behind his head. I only now notice that the weird gauntlet that was on his arm is gone. I frown slightly, but erase the expression. Of course he wouldn't have a weapon on him in a public place. That's just silly.

"Where's the rest of my family, Desmond?" I ask, a little louder. It feels as though I'm more awake, but my body feels utterly sluggish.

"Already heading for California I guess." He answers nonchalantly. He seems very relaxed. "Remember, they were able to get out before I got to you. They probably caught the plane ten, twenty minutes ago."

"Why California?" I asked, worry and anxiety already seeping into my voice and breath. "Aren't we going to New Jersey? Why aren't they coming with me? Aren't we going someplace safe?"

Desmond waves his hands in front of him. "No, no no it's not like that. Where we're going's safe, it's just that…" He pauses, and I already know what he wants to say. "…it's just safer in California."

"Then why the hell am I going in fucking New Jersey?" I cry out. Desmond looks around anxiously. This is quickly winding out of control. He must think I'm going to make a scene.

"Look, here's the deal." He leans closer; uncomfortably closer. I can feel his breath against my mouth and chin. I can't help but notice he smells like coffee and mint. "The people I work for need you, specifically. I don't know why, but they do."

Desmond finally leans back, and I sit there with tears threatening to spill. The people he works for? They need me? Am I really supposed to make sense of all that? But, I suppose I'll learn all about it in New Jersey. I take a shaky breath and slump down low in my seat. I put the fallen bud back into my ear and press the forward button in frustration. As I finally come across a song called Drowning Lessons, I sigh and close my eyes. I know I will not sleep. I make it look like I sleep so that Desmond will not bother me. I raise the volume higher.  
To pass the time, I try to think of the lyrics as they are sung, but that only entertains me for three songs. By the time I get bored, I open my eyes and look at the only video I have. It isn't much; it's a compilation of pictures a friend made for me a long time ago. They are pictures of my friends and I. The song is calm, soothing. It reminds me of the home that I no longer…

I don't think about it. Looking at the video was a horrible idea, I recognise. Just as I furiously tear the earphones out of my ears, I catch the last bit of what Desmond is saying.

"…excuse me?" I ask quietly, unsure that I heard him correctly.

"I said, those seem like nice friends." He repeats, some form of an understanding smile on his face. I wonder if he regrets having said that.

"Yeah, well I won't be seeing them again any time soon." I say, unable to contain the bitterness in my voice. Desmond sighs to my left. I like to believe it isn't quite my fault for being spiteful. I was unfairly taken away from my home before an attempt on my life for unknown reasons.

"You're gonna have to get used to it Jordan." He grumbles, crossing his arms. I seem to have upset him. I don't know why. I look away and patiently wait for our flight to come.

Only a few minutes afterwards, a woman calls a flight number on the intercom. Desmond stands, and I assume that it's our time to go. I look around and notice that none of our bags are near. I take a second to wonder if Desmond had anything to begin with. The security guard at the gate briefly checks me, inspects my mp3 player and phone, and lets me through. Desmond leads the way. He leads us right up to first class. I'm amazed, to say the least. I had not expected such luxury after such a horrible night. Though it is welcomed with open arms, I wonder what kind of people he works for to be able to pull up such expensive cars and flight seats.  
I flop down on the cushioned seat and sigh in content. It truly is a change from the backseat of the Lamborghini. Never before have I looked at those cars in digust. After having tried to sleep in that car, I feel ashamed to say it does not live to my expectations. Then again, what had I been expecting?

"You don't wanna sleep, Jordan." Desmond says. He is laid back in his seat, eyes closed and hands neatly folded on his abdomen.

"You look like you're out for the night." I comment weakly. I find nothing else to say. An awkward silence slides itself between myself and the rest of the world. I contemplate what I could do during the flight. I don't have a notepad or a pencil. I cannot draw. I cannot use my phone in the plane. My mp3 player is most likely going to make me sleep.

"How long is the flight to Newark?" I ask, knowing that airport is the closest we'll get.

"About an hour an a half." Desmond answers. His voice is clear. I was positive he'd gotten to sleeping. "Maybe a bit more. I don't know, because of the snow and all."

I nod twice. I realise the utter uselessness of the gesture and take to turning on my mp3 player again. I do not know which song to pick from the large list. I close my eyes, scroll down and pick a song at random. Pleased with the song, I close my eyes and fold my hands neatly on my lap. I am not as comfortable as I would like, but that is the point. If I am going to sleep for just an hour and a half, I would rather not be comfortable. It would make it harder to wake up.

Though, admittedly, not waking up at all seems like a pleasant idea. It does not appeal me as much as I would let on, though it would not bother me. To sleep for a prolonged period of time and not deteriorate… I linger on this thought for a moment. My mind strays to other things. Again, I imagine myself saving legions of men in Damascus and Jerusalem. And I do not know why these names feel so important, now. But the idea soothes me as much as it can in this state of apathy, and I fall asleep once more. It is a light slumber, and I am quite nearly conscious throughout its entirety. I can only begin to hear crowd bustling and music. It comes from nowhere and everywhere all the same. Lutes and guitars and some other intruments I cannot identify. There are people clapping their hands. I hear a man thanking the crowds in an unfamiliar language. I know what he says, but I don't understand. It puzzles me. The darkness of near-unconsciousness still envelops me, and I cannot shake myself of it. It is keeping me captive.  
A voice begins to chant, something slow and mesermizing. I listen to it more intently than I somehow know I should. It sounds like a snake speaking, at moments. Something grabs my arm, and everything stops. The music grinds to an ear-bleeding halt and the voice gasps and fades away. The darkness disappears quickly in filaments of smoke.

I jolt awake to Desmond shaking me violently. I look around me. I once again feel like a stranger in my own body. I wonder for a moment if this is the real dream, because I do not remember why I am here. It slowly dawns on me that I am in a plane to Newark with Desmond. I nod slowly to myself. I am aware that my eyes are wide with surprise--and a hint of fear. The people around me, those still awake, stare at me as though I had grown a third eye. I groan quietly as a migraine slowly invades my senses. I grow gradually aware that Desmond is speaking to me. I ask him to repeat whatever it is he said or asked. I did not hear or listen to him.

"I asked you if you were alright, and how the hell you know that language." He whispers harshly. I stare at him in much the same way the others stare at me.

"I've got a migraine but I'm fine." I wince as pain pulsates through the left portion of my head. "What language are you talking about?"

"You were hissing something in your sleep, Jordan." Desmond whispers quietly, making sure the other passengers do not hear. "I know those words. I didn't think you would know them."

"That snake voice..?" I ask incredulously, unable to fathom why I would've spoken those words in my sleep. I do not know them. I did not know what they said or meant. I could barely hear them at all, in fact.

"Yeah, the snake voice." Desmond nods quickly, shortly. almost as though he's discovered something important. "Can you tell me what it sounded like?"

He sounds far too interested. But I comply. "It started out sounding like a festival." I say, trying to remember the already-fading dream. "There was a crowd. Clapping and cheering. There was a man thanking the crowd, too, but I don't know what language he was talking. It wasn't like the snake voice, but I knew what he was saying. I don't know why…"

I pause here. My migraine has gotten worse and bright lights flash in front of my eyes for a moment. It isn't without trouble that I bring myself to focus on my words. They escape me for a second, but I quickly bring them back to mind.

"Then, a woman began to sang, and there was a softer music. It came from everywhere. I tried to wake myself up, but it didn't…" I pause again. This is a short break, to reassemble my thoughts. "Her voice faded out, and I heard those snake-like voices. That's when you woke me up." Desmond seems disconcerted, but I don't take the time to think about why. "Why're you so intersted anyways? It's just a dream." I mutter under my breath, wondering if I want an answer. I figure it's better to have the question out, if nothing else.

"That's the thing, Jordan," Desmond begins to answer. He turns away to face the window. I see the sketch of a smile on his face. "that's probably why the people I work with want you so much."

I noticed the difference in wording. He said the people he worked with rather than worked for. I do not know if he realises this. I disregard it, however. It isn't improtant to me what he thinks of his work. I chance a look out the window despite my mild fear of flight. I admire the scenery. I do not know how long it has been since Desmond first woke me up. I lean forward a bit to see better. I see the glow of the sun on the horizon. I do not know what time it is. I could grab Desmond's arm to look at his watch, but I do not. I'll ask him later. Better yet, I will remind myself to look for a clock in the airport. I let my mind drift off while the plane lands safely. I reckon I was dreaming longer than I had thought. The plane lands safely. The passengers give a round of applause. I only participate because Desmond forces me to. I do not have the heart to it. I'm just happy to be alive. It would have been a shame to survive the burning of my home only to die in a plane crash. A plane leading me to a proclaimed "safer place", no less.

Without any thought, I follow Desmond and mirror his moves. I to what he does, listen to what he says when he speaks to people and follow him like his shadow. Somewhere along the way, Desmond stops me with his arm. I keep on staring straight ahead until his voice beckons me.

"Jordan, we're staying in a hotel tonight." He announces, looking around us warily. I wonder who he is looking for. "Just to make sure we weren't followed."

I consent to that in some form and we walk again. He informs me that our things have already been carried to a small limousine, called for before we arrived at the airport. I am slightly baffled, but the news runs over my back like water. I am not as amazed as I otherwise would have been. The apathy dims the surprise, yes, but all the events--the Lamborghini, the first class flight, amont other things--seem to make luxuries a normality. I shake that idea out of my head. It is a horrible thing to think. I force myself to be a little more dazzled.  
That is easy to do when I step outside and see the "small" limo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the preceding chapter were originally meant to be one. I divided them when I posted them way back when, but I'm reconsidering my decision.


	3. Ἄτλας

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atlas. Man has never coped well with pain. Shouldering the sins of the world, he drowns himself in illusions to forget. And I do the same.

The car could easily fit a dozen people in it, yet Desmond and I are its only occupants. The chauffeur holds the door open to me, as Desmond mutters a quick "Ladies first". The chauffeur himself is a middle-aged man, still handsome, but nearing the end of his prime. I smile at him and thank him before slipping into the leather seated car. There is a television and what seems to be a small fridge. Upon entering, Desmond immediately picks up a bottle of wine already poised in a cooler. He shakes off the water from the ice and hastily grabs two flutes.

"I'm underage," I point out, frowning at the man.

"No one knows that. You're twenty three for all I know and care," He replies, a more than devious grin splayed on his lips.

I cannot help but grin as well; it is infectious. And, in any case, I more than welcome the distraction. If I am lucky enough, I will be able to drink until I am at least moderately intoxicated. I would appreciate that for the stress release. I am extremely anxious. It feels as though my blood is sitting still in my veins. My heart is pounding silently and painlessly in my chest. My breath is still normal, though I honestly doubt it will stay that way for much longer.

The white wine is poured, and when Desmond offers me the flute, I down half its content in one gulp. This is not the first time that I have had wine before, let alone the first time that I have drunk alcohol. I know that it take more than a glass or two for my sense to freeze over. Desmond's expression is nearly priceless. I assume he hadn't expected me to be so eager.  
I feel the light burning of the wine in my throat. I wait a moment before downing the remainder of the wine. Afterwards, I do not ask Desmond to fill the flute again; I do so myself.

"There isn't anything stronger, is there?" I ask quietly, wondering how long it would take for wine to numb me over. It certainly would be faster than chugging several Poppers, but I still wonder.

"Stronger than this wine? I don't think so." Desmond answers, the surprise barely noticeable in his voice. "This is a pretty fancy ride, I doubt they have anything like whiskey in here."

I almost laugh. I detest whiskey.

The black glass divider slides down. The chauffeur asks Desmond which hotel he wants to go to, being as he hadn't mentioned before. Desmond gives a name that I do not recognise. The divider goes up again, not without an awkward look from the chauffeur. I figure I remind him of his daughter or son. I wonder how badly he disapproves of me right now.

After the third cup of wine, I begin to feel feverish, and I profoundly appreciate the feeling. I quickly down two more glasses. My then, the warm feeling in my throat is barely present. By my seventh glass, I feel happier than I did this entire week.  
By my eigth glass, we arrive at some Crowne Plaza. Desmond shrugs and taps on the divider. He mutters something I do not catch, and we stop. Desmond tells me that this will be where we'll stay. I reluctantly step out of the car, finding my legs to be much less reliable than they were in the airport. I wonder why? I think they feel like jello. Though I've never had jello legs, and so I suppose I wouldn't know what jello legs feel like. I ponder on how it would feel to be a man made of jello. It must be horrible, always wobbling like that, wherever you go. And if there was an earthquake, it must truly be--

"Wait, I know this place." I mutter, pointing at the sign in front. "I went to the Crowne Plaza for my senior grad!" I exclaim, remembering the party. Everyone was in beautiful dresses, and the boys had finally seemed like men and had started acting their age. It was amusing, to see them all grown up. I had cried profusely, and had gotten rather drunk that night.

I hear Desmond sigh, and before I can fully comprehend what is happening, I stand in front of a desk and he is speaking to a woman.

"I'll need two rooms for the night, please."

Before the woman can ask anything else, I interject. "Just one room, please." Fear coats my voice, though I forget what I am afraid of for a second. Desmond turns to me in shock, and I give him my best pleading look. The woman behind the counter looks at him for a moment before he agrees. I sigh in relief.

Once again, I am walking before I can remember money or keys being given. Desmond asks me why I begged to be put in the same room. I wonder.

"I was almost killed, y'know." I whine, finding it odd that I should display so much emotion. Wasn't I apathetic barely an hour before? How odd. "I don't feel safe in my own skin. And besides, I don't want to have those fucking stupid nightmares without having someone to wake me up or slap some sense into me. I'm scared of the fucking night, Desmond. Scared."

And I find that the answer was much easier than I had anticipated. Though when I try to figure if any of it all is true, I face a brick wall. My throat begins to sting, all of a sudden, and I shiver. I notice my migraine is gone for the first time.  
Desmond walks silently in front of me. He opens the door to the room after unlocking it with the key-card. It is a spacious room. I love it. It has two large beds, and when I venture to the bathroom, I find it to be as large as the actual room. I do not linger on it too long, however. As I come back into the bedroom, I toss off my trench coat and throw my bag onto the small loveseat in the corner of the room.

My thoughts suddenly sober, I realise that I am far from home. I stagger the slightest bit, hovering over the couch. I am still in my nightwear. I wonder for a second if anyone noticed. Even when I assure myself that they have, I cannot find it in me to care about that. I care about my parents and my brother, and I wonder where they are. I wonder it they are okay. I wonder if their plane has crashed. The idea of their death brings forth a horrifying image.

I see a man at the gallows, a noose around his neck. I see him argue with a large man. Another man stands near a lever, a bit behind the posts that support the nosses. To his left, I see a handsome man with cropped hair. I imagine him to be in his twenties.

The boy is what unnerves me most.  
Why is a boy at the gallows?!

I am too preoccupied by their faces to bother registering what it being said on the small wooden stage. I do not care what the accusations are; that the man is screaming is proof enough that he is innocent. What's more, they all appear to be noblemen. I cannot imagine what they have done to deserve death. It escapes me. Suddenly, the larger man begins shouting, and the others seem resigned to their fate. The man with cropped hair seems to stare in my direction.  
I move quickly. I rush to the sides of the gallows, shoving away and down anyone in my way.

The man in the black cloak, the one near the lever, pulls on it in a jerking motion. He seems far too happy to oblige. I hear a man in the crowd scream for is father. With an instinct of rage that I cannot imagine coming from my body, I throw a knife below the hollow, wooden stage and--

The hotel floor slams violently against my head. I wonder why Desmond is screaming and crying. I wonder why my body is flopping in the floor. I imagine I look like a fish out of water. For a second, I had forgotten about the vision. I regret that moment. It makes it harder to realise that what I saw, I really did see.  
I realise that the screaming and crying are coming from me. Pain crushes my chest suddenly, and I try to breathe, but I find it extremely difficult. I grope the air for the boy with the solemn face, and the angered father and the man with cropped hair. I reach for them in the air, but I find my fingers close up on Desmond's sweater. He rushed to my side, it seems, and is now calling my name. He asks me if I'm alright. I panic and try to state how stupid a question that is.

"Where's the boy..?!" I choke, swallowing the words with my breath. My fingers on Desmond's collar are crisped and I doubt anyone could pry them open. I can see the desperation in his eyes, and my tears seem to stream in greater numbers now. My head hurts, my back hurts and my entire body feels as though it's on fire. I scream in pain, trying to make the feeling go away.

Desmond tears my hand away from him. I cry out for him, begging him to say. Seconds later, he returns and gently lifts me up. I am in something of a sitting position. My muscles do not hold me up; Desmond bears the brunt of my weight. He shushes me and tells me to take a pill.

"It'll calm you down." He says, and upon noticing that I am unresponsive, slips two bare pills in my mouth. They instantly begin dissolving. The taste is atrocious. I feel like vomiting. He makes me take a sip of water, and the noxious taste mostly fades away. I begin sobbing uncontrollably. I find enough strength in myself to cling to Desmond's sweater. The only thing I can remember are the faces of the condemned and the anger.

The utterly uncharacteristic anger.

It was so savage that I know I would never be able to feel it ever again. It is against the nature of my being, it seems. As an empath in the becoming, such rage and hatred are foreign to me, as my body still feels the remnants of it right now. I cry and cry, and Desmond sits there in silence. I try asking about the men--and boy--I saw in my horrific vision, but I cannot breathe right. I cannot formulate the words I so desperately want to speak. Eventually, Desmond rocks me back and forth. My sobs have quietted and are now lesser in numbers. My chest still heaves and jerks with hiccough. I am quiet save for that. I begin singing a soft lullaby to myself, the notes choppy and out of tune.  
Desmond takes over the song. I am amazed--and more than happy--that he knows it. He lulls me into a dreamless sleep. I am aware that, after a while, he puts me in bed. I hear him on the phone with someone in the early hours of the morning, and I know when he closes the drapes in front of the window. The world fades away. I am left to my own darkness.

I wake up several times. I hear voices. A woman and a man. I know one of them is Desmond, but I do not know the other voice. She sounds strict, but worried and kind all the same. I wonder who she is and what she is doing here. I come to think that perhaps she is one of the women Desmond works with. Though, the way he spoke of his work had lead me to believe there was no place for females. Perhaps I was wrong. After all, I did not know what Desmond did for a living. Wasn't I supposed to see that today?

I stir in my half-slumber, trying to force myself back to sleep without any real success. The two have stopped talking now. The woman mutters something I do not catch. The door opens and closes silent. I feel a weight on the end of the bed, and I know Desmond is there.

"It's already noon Jordan. They're here for you."

I do not like how he only mentions me. I want him to come with me. I do not want to go alone. Not with these horrible dreams and visions that he has only begun to see the existence of. I do not want him to leave.  
I sit up, and with blurred, glassless vision, blindly grope the air for the familiar sweater. I feel a large, warm hand on my forearm, and I am somewhat reassured. It isn't like I did not know he was there; the bed sinks where he sits. So why was I scared he'd left? I do not know. I do not want to know.

"I don't want to go alone…" I whisper weakly, and I feel silly and childish for that statement. I feel like burying myself several feet underground as the syllables leave my mouth.

"I'll be close behind. I have something to take care of."

That simply isn't good enough.

And now, I wonder why I am acting and thinking like this. I wonder where this attachment has come from. I have not know Desmond for more than several hours. That is far from enough time to become attached to anyone, even for me. The empathy is far from being enough to make this situation acceptable. I will my hands to go down, but I still anxiously clutch at his sleeve.

The door opens again. A light smell fills the room within seconds.

"You're the woman who was here earlier?" I ask quietly and get up and off the bed. As soon as I heard the card swipe in the door, I made quick work of making myself presentable. I do not want to seem like a weak, vulnerable child. Though admittedly, that is was I am, I do not want anyone to think so little of me.

I reach for my bag and extract my glasses case from it. Meanwhile, the woman presents herself as being Lucy. I recognise the name; she is the woman Desmond spoke of in the car to the airport. He said I would like her. She smells welcoming. I suppose he was right.  
I put my glasses on and take a proper look at her.

Needless to say, I now feel extremely self conscious compared to this woman. I resent Desmond for not letting me bring a decent change of clothing with me. I would have needed it right now. I would have desperately needed it.  
Lucy goes on explaining to me that she will take me to a town about an hour away from the hotel, that I will meet other people there.

"And my parents? And my brother? What about them?" I ask suddenly, obviously catching the woman--and Desmond--off guard. I am slightly offended. Had they expected me to forget about my family that easily? "Desmond told me they were going to California but…"

"They're safe, Jordan." Desmond tells me. I doubt his word. He knows I am fragile at the moment. He is biased. Lucy smiles and me and nods. I hardly feel reassured.

"They arrived an hour after you did, actually." The blonde woman adds, taking a quick look at the watch on her wrist. She glares at it for a second, before pulling her phone out.

"Problem?" Desmond asks, and I am somewhat mystified by the devious grin on his face.

"Something like that. I called the taxi half an hour ago and it sti--Yes, hello. I called for a taxi at the Crowne Plaza…"

Her phone conversation is lost on me. I turn around to rummage in my bag some more. I stare longingly at my computer, but figure that I wouldn't have much time to use it, even if I did pull it out.

It suddenly occurs to me that I have a phone. Then it occurs to me that my parents and brother also have phones. I dig around my plaid pants' pockets for my phone and eagerly flip it open to turn it on. I nervously smash the keys of my mother's number, though Desmond closes my phone before I notice he is in front of me.

"There's gonna be time for that later. The taxi just got here." Desmond says, and I find myself to be more flustered than frustrated. I feel the heat rise in my cheeks from aggravation, but I quickly quell the sentiment. There is no time for being flustered.

I quickly grab my things and shove both my mp3 player and my phone in my bag. My coat feels heavier today. I follow Lucy and Desmond as they leave the room. We walk down the stairs briskly--I just now notice that we were not on the first floor. My head begins to throb, and I suspect I am slightly hungover. I smile lightly at that. Of all the times, it had to be now! I had never been hungover before. Not drinking any water must not have helped, though. You usually get headaches from dehydration, and so I make a note to drink more water next time. Though I really do hope there won't be a next time.

Lucy stops at the counter to check out. Desmond and I are already outside by the taxi. He opens the door for me, and I gladly oblige. It is cold outside, and I am more than grateful for the warmth inside the cab. Lucy exits soon after I enter the car, and Desmond keeps the door open for her.

"You go ahead." The blonde says, stuffing her hands in her coat's pockets. "I have to settle a few things around here. I'll see you back home." Lucy's use of the word "home" confuses me. For a second, I wonder if she and Desmond live together. I would not be surprised. They seem close.

Desmond nods deftly, hesitation grasping his muscles. He climbs into the taxi, eager to leave the cold but clearly anxious to leave Lucy behind. He instructs the cab driver where to go, then turns to me.

"We won't be able to drive all the way there." I nod my head once. I stare at the back of the driver's head. "It's about a fifteen minute walk. We'll have someone meet us halfway there."

The prospect of avoiding a half hour walk somewhat reassures me. The thought of walking fifteen minutes in the snow still is not very alluring, though it is considerably better. I look outside the window and I'm glad it isn't snowing. The sun is shining brightly, and there is only a light breeze outside. I hope that things will stay this way. I would hate to have to walk in the cold winter wind.

To my right, I notice Desmond fidgets once or twice. I frown at the uncharacteristic behavior. He had seemed like a very controlled person. He didn't feel like the kind of man to be prone to anxiety, as he now appeared to be. For a moment, I consider speaking in French to avoid having the driver understand us. It dawns on me that Desmond must not know the language I call my mother tongue. I sigh, and ask anyways.

"Desmond." I say his name. He turns to stare at me slower than I expect. I had anticipated a jerky movement, but nothing of the such greets me. "Do you speak French?"

He takes a moment to think before answering. "Something like that." An elusive answer. I wonder what it is supposed to mean.

I take the chance. " _On va où, au juste?_ "¹ I ask, leaning in a bit closer. Despite the fact that I am positive our driver does not speak this language, I take no chances. Paranoïa is familiar to me.

" _Au laboratoire. Ce n'est pas loin. Nous devrions arriver dans vingt minutes._ "²

His French is not flawless, but it is good enough to impress me. I am puzzled by this. Desmond seems like a rather "classic" American; what good would it have done him to learn such a marginal language? It would have been much more useful to learn Spanish, or even Mandarin of Cantonese…

" _On va faire quoi, là-bas? J'vais faire quoi?_ "³ I ask uncertainly, trying to speak slowly. Although he can speak it well enough, I doubt that Desmond's capacity to process spoken words is as fast as mine.

He takes a moment to think. His brows furrow, and I am slightly concerned. " _Ce n'est pas ma place de te l'expliquer. Lucy va tout te dire._ "⁴

It's not his place to tell me. I frown deeply at this and once again stare at the back of the driver's head. If at first I had wanted this man to stay with me, I was now growing increasingly frustrated with him. Desmond's answers were never straight. In fact, he had never effectively answered any of my questions. I either pieced it together or learned it further down the line. It was an endless game of informative cat-and-mouse. I would like to believe I do not have the time to play such games. Some deep instinct tells me that this is true; my days are numbered.  
This is a sobering thought. It saddens me and bemuses me. To distract myself, I look out the window. I think about my mother. I wonder how she is doing, right now, and where she is. Is she enjoying the Californian sun? And what of my father? I pray his asthma will not act up, and that he will remain safe until I see him again.  
My brother worries me least of all. I know he is strong, and I know I can rely on him to keep my parents together and safe.

My dog and cat worry me most. What will become of them? I hope they are with the rest of my family, under the scorching sun of the western coast.

The drive lasts fifteen excruciatingly long minutes. The silence between Desmond and I is unbearable. Though I would like to say something, I cannot think of anything that would interest him. He seems much older than me. I do not know how my seventeen year old self can keep his interest. I open my mouth to say something, but he grabs my arm and calls out to the driver.

"Don't look out the window." Desmond orders, but it is too late. My eyes are riveted to something I know I have never seen. And yet, I know I have beheld this very same sight before, without knowing when or where.

In front of iron-wrought gates are at least a hundred men and women on strike. One woman stands on what seems to be a poor reproduction of a gallows. A loud man serves as executioner. He pulls a lever, and the woman falls, a noose tying her to the wooden beam overhead. I know she lands safely on a bench below, but the shock is there. I stare at her and do not see a woman there.

I see the little boy.

Beside me, shaking--in rage, fear or sorrow, I do not know--Desmond clenches his fists.

I am thrown into another fit, though this one is not like the others. It begins when I jerk my head to the right, and my entire body convulses in response. I lay moaning and screaming at the back of the cab, and the poor driver is at a loss. But what can he do? Tears run down my cheeks. The pain in my chest comes and goes in matters of seconds. It is a deep, throbbing pain that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. I clam up on myself, desperate to patch up the hole I feel has been blow in my torso.

I need to get up and walk.  
I just want to walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French-English Translations:
> 
> ¹ : "Where are we going, exactly?"  
> ² : "To the lab. It's not much further. We should be there in 20 minutes."  
> ³ : "What are we going to do there? What am I going to do there?"  
> ⁴: "It's not up to me to explain. Lucy'll tell you everything."


	4. άνθρωπος

>   
>  _Anthropos. I am only human. Consequently, am prone to emotions; love and hatred. This does not mean I embrace it. In fact, I profoundly resent this humanity of mine._

I know my eyes are open. I can feel the tears pooling. I can feel the stinging winter air on them, almost freezing the tears. I know all this--I can feel it all--but somehow this is not me. I am not here. I am in the crowd, beholding men dear to me being hung. But I do not know why I know them. I am still me, my mind is still my own. But my emotions, my body and my memories… They are not my own. They are someone else's.

_I try to pry my eyes away from the men. One screaming, one square-jawed and one boy. The cloaked man gestures for the lever, I dance to the right, throw the knife. The guards are too slow for me. I have practiced this act for as long as I can remember. I am a savior. This is what I do. Of course they cannot stop me in time._

_The two men and the boy stumble to their knees. I have allies all around that rush to them, others that fend off and kill the few guards who are aware of what is happening. I quickly rush to their aid, helping the men escape. Someone flicks a stone, bodies are thrown, there is a fire--everything is a blur. This has all been carefully orchestrated but my mind is so overwhelmed..!_

Someone slaps me across the face. I can tell that this is not the first time they have done so recently. My face hurts and feels like it is bleeding. I can, in fact, feel the blood running from my lip.  
The first thing I notice is that I am warm. A blanket is around me. I am not shivering anymore. The next thing I notice is that there is a cold compress on my eyes. I open them yet see nothing. That is how I know. I carefully remove it. Dim neon lights assault my eyes.  
The third thing--which truly should have been the first--is that I am in an all-white room. I am no longer outside.

"Lucy! Lucy, she's awake." someone calls. It is a feminine voice. I reckon I must know that voice, yet it does not seem familiar to me in the slightest. I feel as though I should speak, say something, at least. No words come out. My throat feels sore and my eyes almost hurt. I feel a splitting migraine coming along, but I force myself not to think of it. Usually, problems go away when you ignore them.

It always worked for headaches, if nothing else.

I do not notice when my eyes close again. I hear the clattering around me, the distant sound of voices. I do not recognise anything around me, nor does anything feel familiar. I focus on the sound of my breathing, because my mind dims out everything else. I hear someone begging me not to fall asleep again, but the world does not matter to me anymore. I am tired--emotionally spent, and physically drained. I slip into another light slumber.

_I find myself waking up in a dream. I am acutely aware that this is not true. It worries me. I can never tell when I am dreaming, and only ever realise it once I am nearly awake again.  
I am standing behind a small counter. I recognise that I am at work at the small family-owned corner store, five minutes from home. It is not night quite yet. I figure my shift started no more than an hour ago. I look at the clock, and it indicates 3:48. I smirk. I was right; my shift started 48 minutes ago. This is a day I have already lived. I recognise everything; this is one elongated déja-vu. My worry is on the back burner. I can somehow only focus on my actions and the world around me. I do not know why, and I find myself unable to think of an answer._

_When you enter the store, you are on the stair's platform, on street level. To the right are four small steps, two small candy distributors to the wal on the left. There is a large, high shelf in front of you when you open the door. Past that shelf is the counter. Perpenticular to the shelf is a door that leads to the basement, where the owners live. It is a cosy place. I often thought about how pleasant it would be to live there.  
By the shelf is a small freezer. We keep the Mr. Freezes there in the summer, but it remains empty in the winter. I carefully sit on the lid, crossing my legs. My left foot rests on the step. My right leg dangles, bobbing to the song on my mp3 player at the moment. I look outside at the sky. The sun is setting, the entire world is basked in orange. The sky is clear. It snowed recently; the street is covered in white, and the parking spaces in front are only marred with a single set of tire tracks._

_In front of the store is a vacant lot. There was once a gas station there. It was brought down eleven years ago. It was one year short of my arriving in that neighborhood. Now, weeds and wildflowers grow there. Concrete block line the perimeter, to avoid cars accumulating there. Past that vacant lot is a small strip-mall, composed of a comic book store, a hair salon, an ice cream parlour and a dojo.  
For the first time, I realise that my skin feels as though it on fire. I sigh and feel weary. I stand up and push the door open. The biting winter wind hits my face and body. I feel much better, now, and leave the door open for a moment. I lean against the glass. I pull my hood closer to my neck and cross my arms. I look out on the street, looking down to the boulevard off to the right. I stand like this for a moment. Several minutes pass this way._

_Something catching my eye, but it feels like a fluke. I turn my head to the left in time to catch a man in white jumping off the mall's roof on the other side of the street, on the other side of the lot. I sigh in envy. He is most likely another Parkour kid. There are many people in Chateauguay who practice their Parkour skills. There isn't much else to do in this town, if only get high or mar the walls of schools and buildings with grafitti.  
The more I watch him, the more perplexed I am. He is alone, and no one else is around. He punches the air, seemingly frustrated. In an act that baffles me, he climbs back up the wall. This time he goes to the front of the mall to jump. I instinctively lunge forward, calling out to him. Can no one else see him? Cars come and go, the drivers not even glancing at the man on the roof. He jumps again. He breaks into a roll. He remains crouching on the ground, repeatedly hitting the ashphalt parking in front of the dojo._

_"Oi!" I call out as loud as I can. Before I can speak any other words, I find the man is directly in front of me. The sky has darkened without my noticing it. It seems as though a storm is brewing. The wind ceased blowing. The calm before the tempest._

_He surprises me, and somehow I am terrified. I cannot see his eyes. Only his nose and lips can be seen underneath his hood. I try to take a step back. I find the door is closed and I am pressed again it. My heart races dangerously fast in my chest. His breath and mine mingle in the air. Clouds of condensation disappearing somewhere above our head.  
There is the familiar sound of metal scraping against metal. Tears stream down my cheeks. I cannot breathe._

_"Stay. Away." the man says, gritting his teeth. I only notice his left arm draw back the slightest bit before--_

I screw my eyes shut and scream as loudly as I can. I sit up straight and keep screaming. When air lacks, my chest begins throbbing painfully. I cannot inhale enough to fill my lungs. I struggle against a heavy weight on my chest, but nothing is there. I cry and struggle for several seconds. Eventually, I reason with myself. I poise a hand on my chest and force myself to calm down. It's a dream. Only a dream. Always ever just a dream.  
There is an odd twitch in my stomach, and I feel pain there. Paranoïa gripping me once again, a hand shoots there. I probe my stomach. I do not feel anything damp, nor do I feel any lacerations. I barely manage to sigh.

I finally notice that I do not know where I am. As I begin to look around me, the door to the room I am in slams open violently. A woman runs in, asking me question after question. The words bleed into each other. Desmond runs in shortly after her, seeming less alarmed. He is, I suppose, used to these fits and odd happenings around me. The woman is still asking questions. I let myself fall back on what I now know to be a bed. I stare at the ceiling. I have the feeling my eyes are glassy.

"It was… just a dream. Just a dream. A really weird dream. Just a dream." I begin repeating the same words over and over again. I roll to my side and curl up on myself. The pain in my chest comes back with a vengeance. My fingers dig into the flesh of my arms. I desperately try to hold myself together. Every breath is shaky and uneven.

The woman in the room is clearly clueless. She does not know what is happening or how to calm me. I notice Desmond's sigh as he tries to explain the situation. The words he speaks are too low for me to hear. The woman exits the room. She does not close the door. Air still rushes through. The ceiling fan is spinning rapidly. My body feels as though it is on fire. I feel feverish. I feel sick. I am sick and tired and I want it all to stop.  
I feel Desmond's hand on my shoulder as I mutter to myself. His thumb is rubbing small circles. This is a gesture I recognise as being comforting. I hate myself, now, because I know I seem weak. I look like a poor child struck repeatedly with a bat.

Somehow, that idea disgusts me. I realise that many things have happened recently. Since the night when I was meant to die--the thought makes me cringe though I continue to mutter--I've had many visions. I've had so many crippling visions… But is this normal? Does this not fit into my regular, every day routine?  
I wonder if Desmond pities me, if only for a split second. I wonder if that pity would be deserved. Am I really such a sad person?

"How old are you?"

The question is like an ink stain on a blank white canvas. I force myself to regulate my breathing. I striaghten out my thought. I try to formulate a decent answer, but I struggle mostly with grasping the question and its purpose.

"Se-seven-seventeen." I sutter, still lightly hiccoughing from the fit. "Why?"

"How long have you lived in Chateauguay for?" His remembering the name of my town almost makes me smile. No one ever remembers Chateauguay. Only the people who live there.

"All my-my life." I answer. I find that I am calming down. Is this why Desmond is asking me questions? To calm me down?

"What school were you in?"

"Dawson Col-College. I was a lit student." My breathing is slower, steadier. His backdoor method is actually working. I am almost amazed by this.

"Any friends there?" He almost sounds worried. I almost get offended. Almost feelings.

"Lots." I answer shortly. "I'm in a club. Anime club. I know everyone there. We're like a… this huge family. They're always there for me. They're amazing."

I hear Desmond chuckle in front of me. The bed sinks in front of my stomach. He is perched at my side, his hand still on my shoulder. He continues to ask me many questions. He asks me the name of my parents and those of my cat and dog. He asks me what my favorite season is, what bands I like most and what color I love to wear the most.  
I am flustered several times. I fail to understand why he is asking all these things. I was calm enough after the first few questions. Why does he keep going? Does he want to show me I cand trust him? Does he feel I need someone to talk to? Though obnoxious, that assumption would have to be correct. I desperately need to talk to someone about everything I am seeing.

My eyes being to droop dangerously low. Desmond sighs quietly and stands. I miss the dip in the bed. Its flat surface feels unnatural now.

"You should probably sleep." Because I obviously have not slept enough. "It's practically three in the morning. Seriously, you need to sleep." I fervently search the room for any clue on the time. The nightstand to my right holds an alarm clock. Bright blue numbers indicated that Desmond is right; it is 2:57AM.

"Do you mind if I walk around a bit?" I ask quietly. My throat feels sore. I wonder how much time I've been sleeping to feel like this. I look up at Desmond, staring at him intently. He seems to be debating something; his brows are pulled together in a frown.

"Yeah. Yeah sure. Just don't go too far." Desmond say before he gets up. He walks to the door in a fashion that reminds me of a spy. It looks as though he is trying his hardest to make as little sound as possible. "My room's two doors down to the right. You'll remember that?" I nod. "See you in the morning."

I scoff to myself once he closes the door. It is already morning, just that the sun is not yet up. I slowly slide my legs over the side of the bed. I notice I am still dressed in my nightwear. This is something of a reassurance. At least I know no one has touched me, and I am already well equipped to sleep.  
The floor is made of dark hardwood boards. It feels cold against my bare feet. The sensation is welcomed; I still feel feverish and sickly. I carefully pad to the barely-open door and step out into a long hallway. There are only two doors on the wall opposing me; one door at each end of the hallway. The wall my door is on is filled with others just like mine. There are seven doors. Mine is third from the right. I assume that Desmond's room is the one at the end of the hall to my right.  
Carefully, trying not to make a sound, I tiptoe to the right end of the hallway, to the nearest door. The white tile floor is colder than the hardwood, but not uncomfortably so. At the end of the hallway, I face the large metal door. I slowly push on the bar in the center of it, fearing it will creak, but it does not. It opens effortlessly on greased hinges. I take three or four steps forwards and let the door close behind me. I am faced with a spiraling staircase. There are ten steps to go down to reach a small plateau. There is a large window in the wall there, and a large window sill to match. I smile at it lightly and take a seat on the sill.  
I bring my knees up to my chest and hold them tightly. I stare out at the still-covered sky and wonder if my family is safe. Are they sleeping well? Is mom warm enough? Is dad snoring too loud for her to sleep again? I wonder…

I lean my head back and let it rest on the sliver of wall there. The dim light from the far-off town is enough for my eyes to see in the dark. The sky is almost orange in the distance. My right hand twitches, and I groan quietly. I know that odd sensation.

I need to draw.

I cannot recall bringing art supplies with me. I vaguely remember the notebook and the pencil. I realise I do not know if my bag is in the room I was in. I know nothing of this place. I shiver, from uncertainty and the cold emmanating from the window. I slide my head to lean it again the cool pane of glass.  
My breath fogs up a small portion of the window. My hand twitches again. I close my eyes and sigh. The restless feeling creeps up my arm into my shoulder. The need to run suddenly takes over my body. I frown and try to make the thought seep out of my mind. Now is not the time to explore and run off and get myself lost.

I blink lazily, trying to keep myself awake. Although I have the urge to draw, the need to sleep is overwhelming. eventually my body slumps on the sill, and my eyes droop until closed. I sigh somewhat contently. The cold air near the window chils my scorched skin. My left arm is draped across my middle, but my right hand lays at my side. My feet are pressed against the other side of the sill.  
As I begin to drift away, I once again hear the sound of a woman's voice. It is not the same voice I heard on the plane. It feels familiar, thought I know it not to be. She sings a song I know well, the same that Desmond sung me in the hotel room. I sing along with it, slurring my words in fatigue.

At some point, I fall asleep. I had known I would. I do not know how long I sleep before a harm hand takes hold of my shoulder. I am shaken into alertness. I mutter unintelligable words and open my bleary eyes. My entire body aches. It contests being in such an awkward position for so long. A voice speaks. I do not take the time to recognise it. It demands something that goes unregistered. I stay still by the window. There is a sigh and another sentence that I do not catch. Arms slide behind my back and under my knees, and I am lifted away from the window sill. I tiredly reach for it, and, in a second of lucidity, I notice the sun has not risen.  
I bounce up and down once or twice. The person carrying me tries to get a better hold. When they reach the top of the stairs, they swear. I wonder how they will open the door. I groan. My right arm reaches out, and it takes a moment to find the door's handle. I tug at it three times. By then, the one carrying me places their foot between the door and the frame and shoves the former open. The pneumatic hinge hisses as the door closes behind us. I am carried to my room. The door is already open, as I have forgotten to close is. I am carefully laid in bed and tucked it. When the person motions to leave, I grab hold of what I can only imagine to be a shirt's sleeve.

"Sing to me." My voice is unusually clear, and I know that I will not remember this in the morning. The room is silent save for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. A sigh. The bed sinks.

"I'm not a babysitter. I don't know any lullabies."

"Anything."

Silence. They are thinking of a song. Within seconds, quiet, low notes fill the air in the room.

" _Don't wanna cry for you but there's nothing left to lose. Gotta let the boy have his way cause he can't seem to drink it away…_ "

I smile. I recognise the artist, but, moreover, I recognise the song. My hand slowly drops, hanging sitffly over the edge of the bed. I fall asleep listening to someone singing one of my favorite Pete Yorn songs. I dream of nothing, for once. I see no men on gallows, no boys being hung, no voices whispering in a foreign language.

I wake up to someone opening my room's curtains. This is the first time I can take in my surroundings. The bed I am it is pressed against the wall to the left and has a nightstand to the right. There is a dresser near the door, a television in front of the bed and a desk pressed to the wall below the large window. The walls are a dark blue, and the floor is, as I'd thought, made of a dark wood.

"Rise and shine, love. We got a lot to do today, so better get a move on it." A woman says, her raspy voice reminding me of several women back home. Her black hair whips around as she rushes from the curtains to the door.

"Uh, what am I…?" I begin to ask, sitting up in my bed. She interrupts me.

"You've got some clothes in the dresser. It's really not much, but it beats walking around naked." She pauses at the door, her hand on the knob. "Oh, and your bag's by the TV right there, and breakfast is ready on the floor right under this one. You'll be able to smell your way there."

And the woman walks out the door. I sit somewhat dumbfounded, but stand nonetheless. I walk to the door to close it. I stand there awkwardly, wondering if I should pull the curtains closed again. Deciding I prefer privacy over peeping toms, I make quick work of closing the curtains and undressing.  
Walking to the large cherry wood dresser, I find that, as the woman had said, there isn't much to work with. There are several jackets and hoodies, most of which are either white or some cross between baby blue and teal. I pick out the only black piece of upper body clothing I can find. I am pleased to notice that it is an off the shoulder black shirt. It is too large, but I appreciate the loose fit. Pulling open the drawer at the bottom, I browse through the various pairs of pants there. There are many sizes, though I am hardly surprised. I pick out a pair my size--a darker wash jean, of course, because that really is all I accept to wear.

I do not look for a mirror. I run a hand through my short hair and instinctively head for the nightstand. I grab the glasses I know are there and open the curtains again. The sun is still low on the horizon. I do not look at the alarm clock and walk out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If memory serves, this chapter is a little longer than the previous three, and this tendency should keep up during the next few chapters. At the moment, there are only six more after this, and I am currently anticipating writing number eleven, though I can't guarantee or project a release date yet.


	5. πάθος

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pathos. These feelings I withold from you do not matter. The feelings I display are what are cause for worry; how can my body so willingly disobey the order from my mind? Love truly is a mysterious thing.

I pass the window sill and smile at it again. I continue downwards to another metal door. The smell of food assaults my senses the moment I cross the doorway. I stand there for a moment and close my eyes. For a split second, I can hear my brother making witty jokes, my father chuckling at it, and my mother reprimanding my dog for eating yet another piece of bacon.

Reality crashes into me harshly and I almost double over in shock. I am greeted with several pairs of eyes on me. I immediately notice Desmond, sitting at a small, round, white table off to my right.

"Welcome back to the real world, sug!" I notice the same woman who woke me up is the first one to greet me. She is walking over to the table where Desmond sits, balancing plates in her hands and on her forearms.

"We can't all fit on that table." My first reaction is to be bewildered at the though. Another man laughs. I notice he is the one doing all the cooking.

"She's the new one isn't she?" His British accent quite nearly makes me melt. I have always had a soft spot for foreign men. However, I cannot help but feel that he is being condescending. I chase the offended air that creeps up on my face.

"Give her a break, Shaun." The black haired woman says, playfully whacking him behind the head as she walks back to the makeshift kitchen counter.

The entire room is awkward in and of itself. The stove and microwave are off to the left on, long, narrow tables now used as countertops. The wall in front of me is a few meters away, and is filled with several sinks; it is reminiscent of those in my art class. There are cupboards lining the walls, seemingly hanging from the ceiling. Upon further investigation, I notice that there are other small tables like the one Desmond sits at. I feel my face grow warm at my lack of perception.

"You're not allergic to anything, are you?" I hear another woman ask, and I see Lucy standing in front of a fridge's open door. The fridge itself is next to a set of large, imposing metal doors. One of them has been kept open with a brick; outside it what seems to be a balcony covered in snow.

"Oh, uh, no. Nothing," I reply quietly, distracted by the window. It reminds me of a house I used to live i--

"The name's Rebecca by the way." The woman adds, interrupting me mid-step. I was heading for the double doors. "Rebecca Crane. Sorry for waking you up like that."

"It-it's fine." I muttered, heading, instead, towards Desmond and where he sits. I would much rather be by someone I have known for more than several minutes.

I pull a simplistic white chair from underneath the table and sit down. I fold my hands in my lap, staring intently at the edge of the table. I hear the others speaking with each other. I simply wring my hands below the table.

"What are you waiting for?" I hear Desmond ask. I feel my stomach clench. The smell of bacon and freshly cooked eggs seems to coat everything around me. I look up at him for a moment, and down to the plate that he pushes further in front of me. "You have a fork and a knife you know. Can't do much else with those 'cept eat and stab."

The joke almost makes me smile. My lips twitch, but nothing comes. I am almost disappointed. Regardless, I pick at my food and eat. I slowly slip into a daze. I find that this prevents the nostalgia. I do not think of my parents and brother for more than a second. I've worried about them more than enough. Instead, I wonder what they are going to do with me today. The woman, Rebecca, said I had a rather busy agenda. Yet I just arrived; what could they possibly want with me?  
I shake myself from my stupor. I glance at Desmond for a fleeting moment. I look up past him, to the table behind. I stare at this Rebecca woman for a moment. I open my mouth to speak.

"What… am I going to do, today?" I inquire, uncertain if anyone heard save for myself. The other man, the cook, turns his head towards me and Lucy looks up.

"We're going to run a few tests," the blonde answers. I hoped Rebecca would answer. She seems to be, by far, the least hostile. Save for Desmond, the entire building felt foreboding.

"Tests? For what?" The plate in front of me is forgotten.

"Your memories. They're gonna test your memories today," Desmond fills in the blank. He leans back in his chair. His plate is already empty, whilst mine is barely touched. I stare at him. I have no doubt I look perplexed and confused. "Uh, Luce, I think you should explain this one," Desmond adds, obviously unable to answer my expression.

Lucy sighs and shakes her head. Something about her reaction leads me to believe Desmond is lazy. He must often give her the bigger tasks. I cannot blame him; he has come off as being a person of action, thus far. Explanations are not what he does. He ambushes and attacks. Though, to be honest with myself, ambushing feels much more characteristic. He does not feel like a planned person.

"…mus and then see if you're compatible with… Are you listening to me?" I blink several times. Lucy is staring at me, as are the other people in the room. I stutter and apologise. I was not listening. The cook says to leave me alone, that he will explain it later. Rebecca lets out a bark of laughter. I do not understand why she laughs. I am, in fact, quite worried.

"Fine, fine. I'll explain it to you," Desmond groans. He stands and motions for me to follow. I snatch a piece of bacon from my plate and eagerly follow him. Anything to get away from any more embarrassment.

Desmond leads me back up the stairs. I do not look at the window or its sill. We walk down the long hallway to the last door. I am almost surprised to find that it does not open on another flight of stairs. Instead, I am greeted with what appears to be a studio. The lighting here is extremely different. Immediately, I feel more at ease. This feels much less like a prison and more like some college. There is a computer and a desk off to the left, and some form of a dentist's chair in the middle of the room, off to the right. The technology tied to it--the various screens and displays, the headrest itself--suggest the chair is used for things a far cry from dentistry.

"This is the Animus. The thing Lucy was talking about while you were off in dreamland." Desmond points to the chair. My face warms up again, but I force myself to listen. "This… thing, it lets you look into your ancestor's memories, through your DNA."

"Through my DNA? What?" I ask. How can that be remotely possible? If your DNA had memories, you'd think everyone would have constant déja-vu and the entire world would be a boring place.

"Okay, too fast, uh…" Desmond crosses his arms and stares at the walls for a moment. His face is illuminated with some realisation. He turns to look back at me. "What are memories, Jordan?"

I frown. "Recollections of… of things you've done. Events. Where are you going with this..?"

"Exactly. But these people--the scientists--they think that it's more than that. That memories are stored in DNA, and that they're passed down through the generations," Desmond explain. He is pacing around the room now. He is about to speak, but I cut him off.

"So basically they're proposing that instinct is just a figment of our imagination? That it's all just genetic memory?" I ask, crossing my arms in turn. "That's… pretty much just taking physical memory one step further, isn't it? Taking it and shoving it down the line…" I mutter to myself. I feel tears welling in my eyes. I am confused, distraught, but I am uncertain why.

"Woah, are you okay?" Desmond asks. He hurries to my side. Once again, I feel like a weak child.

"F-fine. I'm fine." I stutter, shaking my head. "So… The Animus, they want me to go in there?" I ask, staring at the chair. Knowing what it is used for, I am not quite sure I like it. "Why? It's not like I'm anything special." I say this, though I desperately hope that Desmond contests that. I wish I were special, I truly do. From the bottom of my heart, I had always hoped I was different. But after seventeen years of living a normal life, I'd resigned myself to a mundane life.

"Actually, it's a funny thing. Even I don't know why they're taking you in," Desmond admits, turning to stare at the torture-chair. "I think it's that empath thing of yours. Shaun seemed really interested in that."

"Shaun?"

"Oh, uh…" He scratches the back of his head. "The guy who made breakfast. His name is Shaun Hastings." I mutter a simple 'oh'. There is not much else to say. "But, yeah. I think he's onto something, but there's really no way of knowing."

"That's why it's just a test," I mutter. Of course they would probe my mind beforehand. Though I wonder, if they find nothing, what will happen to me? Will I be sent home to my parents? For a reason I can't identify, I am positive that it is wishful thinking. Returning to my parents feels like a less-than-likely option.

I turn around, meeting Desmond face-to-face. I did not hear him move. I stumble backwards, only a step or two. I quickly turn away. I hear him sigh.

"Listen, Jordan, about the wine…" I automatically tense. I feel a tear rolling down my cheek. Was this the feeling of uneasiness I felt before? Had I anticipated this conversation? I am scared of what Desmond plans on saying. Will he tell me the wine was drugged? Will he reprimand me for drinking so much? Worst yet; will he ask why?

"I don't want to talk about it." I feel my chest clenching again. I fear the oncoming reaction. I try my best to stave it for now.

"It's fine, really. Just wanna say you can talk to me if there's something wrong," he says. His voice is quiet, understanding. I frown. My chest loosens the slightest bit. The feeling that I am being treated as an equal lingers in my mind for the first time.

"I just…" I let myself crouch on the floor. I hear Desmond take a hurried step. He stops when he realises I do not fall. I wipe away the only tear that fell. "I… it's just not fair. It really just isn't any fucking fair," I mutter, hugging my knees and staring intently at the floor. "People want my family dead, I'm taken away to fucking New Jersey and I'm going to have my DNA inspected for fucking relic-worthy memories. Over that, I've been apathetic for the past week and a half and now I have to deal with visions of people being hung!"

As I spoke, my voice cracked and broke and became progressively louder. I break into sobs when I finish, and I simply let myself fall forward onto my knees.

"I-I'm really… really tired of-of seeing the same people die. Over a-a-and over again!" I cry, slamming the floor with both fists. I am sick and tired, my mind is constantly assaulted with images of memories I do not own. My feelings are fleeting and I can hardly register what I say and do.

Somehow, I think that this life is not my own anymore. It is ruled by far too many outer influences to be my own. I feel Desmond's hand on my back. He is crouched at my left. He rubs at my back. We are both obviously uneasy in this situation. I cannot bring myself to stop crying. Desmond casts fleeting glances at the Animus chair. He stands and shows me his hand.

"Come on. I'll show you how the Animus works, take your mind of things."

My mind reels. Somehow, I am convinced that this is a horrible idea. I wonder if Lucy should be warned. Or, in the least, Rebecca. Someone should be warned, right? My mind is still swimming when Desmond sits me in the chair. It feels far too big, and something tugs at my mind. An uncomfortable feeling of misery and loneliness invades me. For a moment, I feel the tears stinging at my eyes again. They do not pool or fall. Desmond takes his place on a small chair by the Animus. He works meticulously over a small keyboard. He glances at some holographic screen now and again. I hadn't even known those were actually real. I want to ask about it, but I remain silent.

"1994?" he asks. It takes me a moment to realise what he is asking. I nod. My throat is still clamped shut. A few more keyboard clicks. "Okay, now close your eyes. Relax. This might actually be fun for you."

I obey and close my eyes. I feel Desmond pressing probes to both temples. He tells me to take a deep breath; a needle pricks my skin in the hollow of my elbow. I hear the creaking of the vinyl chair as he sits back down. The image of the sunlight reflecting off the floor is burned in my mind. Desmond quietly mutters to himself. I cannot make out the words. White splashes all around me. Lines rush past me.

"What the hell is this?" I ask. Panic finds its way to my limbs. I am shaking like a leaf. My skin is paler, almost translucent. I see the purple veins in my palms and arms. My breath is coming in dangerously short gasps.

I hear Desmond chuckling lightly. Anxiously. "No worries. It takes a little getting used to it, but you'll get the hang of it." His voice seems distant and disappears. I look around me. Nothing but white floors and mist surrounds me. "Wanna go through the tutorial?"

"N-no. I think I can handle whatever… whatever the hell this is." I stutter, walking around. The seemingly infinite space begins to weigh down on me. "Just get me out of here. I hate big spaces. I hate the beaches. Get me out."

"Yeah, just a sec. Finding a memory you can drop into."

The words confuse me. I sit down cross-legged on the solid floor. The lack of temperature unsettles me. I hug my knees and avoid staring out at the distance. It unnerves me more than being stuck in a closet. I remember the word for it: apeirophobia. The fear of infinity describes the anxiety I feel. The air around me begins to brighten considerably. The light emanating from the mist begins to blind me. I hear Desmond say something about Crusades. His words are lost on me.

Slowly, one by one, it feels as though my senses are awakening. I hear before anything else. I hear horses, their hooves clicking against what I assume is a cobblestone road. I hear church bells in the distance. Men are calling out prices, women calling on children. The pungent smell hits me next. The smell of smoke and burning fires, meat and old rugs. And the less savoury smells of waste. I begin to feel the ground beneath my feet, the crude cotton clothing on my shoulders. A chilling breeze catches in my hair. The sun is somewhere behind a thick layer of clouds. The air is humid, and the cobblestones are wet. It rained several minutes ago. Someone behind me pushes me forward; they laugh as they come beside me.

"Really, Anneliese, you need to stop being so light headed!" A woman laughs heartily to my right. She is taller than me. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun, covered with a white cap. Her dark cloak trails behind her. She walks on ahead of me.

"Oh, please, Marie, you are chastising me for dreaming?" I ask, teasing the older woman playfully. "As I recall, you were the one who ran into a nobleman not any later than yester-night," I quip. Marie's arm latches onto mine. With my free hand, I pull my cloak closer to my body.

"Charles? Dear, that man is hardly noble. Half a brain and an entire brothel is all he has in his favor, really." We both laugh at the man's antics. We have known him for a considerably long time. We only meet him on occasion, to discuss business.

"And yet, not as much can be said for any other man round here." My thickly accented voice catches the ears of many other men. Some stare at me, others glare. I brush off the wordless insults with a smile and continue walking with Marie.

"So, dear Anne, I've heard your father has found a suitor for you?" Marie asks. Her tone is heavy with implications.

"We do not speak of the suitor, we do not think of the suitor, and we most certainly never evoke or mention his name in any idle conversation," I state solemnly, desperate to steer the conversation to something else.

"Is he really that horrible?" my friend asks, seemingly as eager as a small child. "Oh I've heard many thing about him, but I never dreamt any of them were true!"

I sigh. Her gossiping habits were never good for my patience. "I would like to say he is an angel from Hell itself, but his looks match his despicable personality," I lament. I make a point of injecting as much poison in my words as I can.

"On another, less romantic note…" Marie leans in closer to me. She whispers to my ear. "I heard Maria has not come back from De Sable's crusade. You don't suppose she's died, do you?"

I snicker. "That woman has as many chances of dying by the hands of those dirty men than she does ever marrying one." I laugh loudly, pulling my friend faster along the busy streets of London.

"And your swordsmanship skills, then?" Marie asks, quieting her voice the tiniest bit more. "You've kept it up with him, haven't you? Oh, tell me you have!" Marie pleads. She tugs on my arm several times. I bite back my laughter and smile instead.

"I have, Marie, your worry is empty," I answer quietly. I look around me, staring at bare trees along the road. "If I may allow myself to be as bold as to say so, I believe my teacher is slowly realising that women can be just as powerful as men. Perhaps more so."

Marie laughs loudly. Men once more turn their heads towards us. One man behind a stall calls us forward. Marie ushers me to him. Various necklaces are on display. She quickly picks one up. She holds it up to my neck and carefully examines it. She does this several times. Eventually, she settles for a simple design. It is a deep purple amethyst. A copper wire hold it firmly, a thin leather cord running through a loop in the wire. The stone is carved to look like the pendants the occasional fortune teller brings along. Muttering something along the lines of "incredibly befitting", Marie hands over the necessary coins. I gawk at the piece of jewelry.

"Oh, no, Marie, I could never accept this." Though I am secretly rejoicing. I was in dire need of a necklace to suit the dress my father had tailored for me several days prior.

"I would be offended if you accepted it without at least a little fight!" Marie exclaimed, twirling me around to tie the leather string. I marvel at the stone; it is a magnificent color. "Think of it as a token of my appreciation. You give me the most delectable stories, Anneliese dearest."

I smile. Marie had always been a marvelous writer. Though she had never published her works, I was granted the privilege to read them. Exquisite and enthralling, I stayed up late into the night with my candles by my bedside. Father often chastised me for being so tired and waking late into the morning, but I found it worth the scolding.

"Now, onto your royal demeure." Marie laughs, giving me a playful shove forward. "Your father and less-than-desirable suitor must be waiting." I grimace at the mention of the horrible man. "I'm sure that if you bat your eyelashes enough, slitting his throat will be much less predictable."

It is my turn to laugh as I continue walking down the cobblestone road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the continuation of the previous one, and was considered some kind of a filler chapter. I deeply apologise that an update took this long, but I'm eternally grateful to you if you've waited with me.


	6. άρνηση

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arnese. I reject the events that have happened to me thus far. They are unimportant. My life is unchanced. This is the first phase of my own death.

I slowly come back to my senses. I was knocked out for what I know only to be several seconds. It feels like it was an eternity. Again, the first thing I notice is the sounds around me. Voices are shouting at each other. I manage to identify Desmond in the mix. I can hear Rebecca in the background. She is calming someone else. I hear the british cook—Shaun, was it?—as he mutters something under his breath. I do not catch the words. I hear Lucy screaming once again. I flinch. Desmond suddenly sounds desperate. It is all he can do not to just shush Lucy. I hear him mutter something about me. I hear him say I am waking up. Lucy does not lower her voice.

"It was a stupid thing to do!" Lucy yells. Her voice is becoming clearer now. "You shove her into the Animus without having a fucking _clue_ how to work the thing and you expect her to be _fine_?! How the hell did you—"

"Luce, chill. She's waking up," Rebecca interjects. Her voice is low, almost submissive. It is a welcome change from the blonde woman's overly harsh, loud tones. "It's only one time. And 'sides, the girl's already out of it."

"At least she knows what she's getting into?" Desmond sounds horribly anxious. I quite nearly feel Lucy seething in her spot. I groan; my entire body feels sore.

For a moment, I do not recognise the voices. I was talking with Marie only a few seconds ago. I was heading towards the mansion, where Papa was waiting for me with Éric. I despise Éric, but I will submit to this slow torture to make Papa happy. I wonder where I am and who these people are.

But who is Éric? And I know all of these people.

I struggle against the crashing waves of uneasiness. I do not recognise the consciousness that is not mine. Was it all a dream? The woman, the neckalce, and the streets of London. Were they real? Was that woman real? I desperately try to make sense of the situation. Logic escapes me. My mind feels groggy and I cannot properly think. Lucy's voice is quieter now. I am indefinitely thankful for this. The headache that had slowly been invading my forehead now recedes. It takes me a moment to regain the use of my limbs. I move my head first. I raise it from the chair. I lift my arms, pull out the offensive needle, swing my legs over the side. I jump down and stretch. I feel my shoulders and elbows pop. I feel tired and worn out. All at once I feel considerably older than I should, than I am. Desmond stands to my right. His hand rests on my shoulder.

"Feel alright?" He asks. I have the feeling Lucy is glaring at him. I would not be surprised if a gun was aimed to his head. He sounds too worried.

"Nauseated and really, really…" I yawn, piontedly proving my statement. "…really tired. But I feel fine. What is that?"

I feel much more relaxed, I notice. This is something I do not understand. Perhaps the fatigue dragged along a sense of ease. I do not question it for long. I have learned to never question a good thing. It never ends very well for me when I do.

"The girl's fine. Now get out or start working," the other man, Shaun, says. The corners of my mouth are pulled into a grin. I cannot remember if I have ghosted a smile until now. It worries me for a second. Not smiling for such a long time cannot be good for one's health. Certainly not my own.

I am pulled out of the room by my arm. Rebecca starts talking to me. She asks me who I was in the Animus, how I managed to get in so fast, how I bypassed the tutorial. I tell her I do not know anything. I tell her I simply listened to what Desmond told me to do and followed in Anneliese's footsteps. Rebecca asks me how my ancestor was like. The question catches me off guard. I smile.

"She's a really strong person. She's actually training in secret with her uncle. He comes by her father's house a few times a month, so she practices her swordsmanship when he's there." I notice I sound dreamy. Under the airy tones, I feel a creeping nostalgia. I chase it away. "Her father's been trying to get her to marry for two years though. The latest suitor he's found is completely self-centered and doesn't care for her at all."

"Sounds like a ball." Rebeca chuckles. She urges me to go on.

"Well, her mother died when she was about eleven or twelve—can you believe she doesn't even keep track of her age?"

I ramble on and on about my ancestor until Rebecca stops me. She is laughing when she does so. I can't believe you can talk so much, she says. She is amazed because she believed me to be a quiet person. I cannot blame her however. I haven't given anyone reason to believe I can be talkative. I smile faintly and apologise, but it is quickly brushed off with another smile.

"No worries!" Rebecca says. Her smile is comforting, like an older friend's. "Personally, I like you better when you talk. Sure makes you look less like a zombie."

I nod. I agree with her. I did look somewhat lifeless, I suppose. I haven't said much at all and have slept for the better part of the three days I have been here. I notice for the first time that Rebecca has lead me back into the joined kitchen and dining room. She offers to heat up the food that remained untouched in my plate. I aim to reject the offer. My stomach lurches almost painfully, and I reluctantly accept. I scarf down the food quite shamelessly. There is no one else around. I assume the right of throwing caution to the wind. I am finishing the glass of water Rebecca had pratically thrown at me when I started choking when Lucy and Desmond walk in. I cough once or twice before quietly thanking Rebecca. She smiles at me, something that says "This'll be out little secret."

"So, where's four-eyes?" she asks, her eyes discretely looking behind the two.

"Stayed behind to start working'" Desmond answers, sitting back in his place in front of me. "Said he had too much to do to bother babysitting."

I smile lightly. For some reason, this sounds utterly characteristic of the Brit.

"He also said," Lucy resumes. Apparently Desmond has a habit of over-simplifying things. "that he had to do some reasearch about what Jordan saw in the Animus."

"But it's not anything remotely important," I blurt out. I cover my mouth with my hand instinctively. I am not sure why I spoke. It feels like a defense, something someone would say to stop someone else. I frown, as does Lucy. Desmond simply shoots me a stare, eyebrow raised. "Well, I mean," I search for my words, trying to make a rather unimpressive save. "It's not like there was anything important going on at that time. It was only a stroll down a street. Can that really be important?"

"It's not the importance of the memory as much as the fact that we need to start keeping tabs on you." Lucy explains. She leans against the door frame and crosses her arms. I frown; there is something she is not telling me. she obviously does not want to discuss that particular matter. I find myself intrigued by the fact that I can read so much simply by her posture, and her being at the door.

"Keeping tabs on me…," I echo. I had turned around in my chair to be able to see Lucy. I turn back again to stare at the table. I do not particularly enjoy being treated as a test subject. Because, quite frankly, that is what I feel like now. I am a test subject, an anomaly singled out, wrenched away from my family to be meticulously studied and picked apart.

"Not as bad as it sounds," Desmond comments airily. I almost feel like laughing at his poor attempt to comfort me. I smile, though, trying to cheer up.

The day goes on by without much excitement. I help Rebecca clean the dishes while Desmond and Lucy are upstairs working with the Animus. I feel rather comfortable arround Rebecca. She is a very laid-back person and I find it is easy for me to talk to her. Her reminding me of so many women at home must help some; Vickie and Cendy have the same raspy voice and headstrong attitude. She mostly feeds the conversations, asking me questions about Chateauguay. She asks what it was like there, and how the river looked in our corner. The Chateauguay river runs for miles upon miles. I was told by my father, in my childhood, that it went down to the United States. I was never quite sure how far it went, however, but I loved to imagine the different towns around it. I tell her about the single mall in the Chateauguay, and the one movie theater that only ever shows movies in French. She makes a face at this; I cannot blame her. Everyone hates that movie theater anyways.

Dishes clean, dried and put away, I venture off to my room. I pause a moment in front of the window. Something catches my eye on a rooftop. My chest clenches painfully at the memory of the dream I still vividly remember. I rush up the last few stairs and almost run to my door. I close it quietly and let my back rest against it. I berrate myself for being so silly. Am I really going to start jumping at the sight of a flickering leaf? I take a shaky breath and force myself to my feet. I stare at the set of sliding glass doors in front of me. I wonder if there is a balcony or if it's been removed. This entire building seems oddly convenient, yet very wakwardly located. Something in my mind wanders. Something clicks and leaves.

While I was reliving Anneliese's memory, there was something nagging at the back of my mind. A word, its sharp ends slashing through my thoughts. I admired Anne for that, for not letting her discomfort show. I tried desperately to remember the word. It had surfaced when Maria was brought into the conversation. It was a word, something disgusting and awful.

Templar. That's it. _Templar_.

The rage I find myself ruminating feels familiar, as though I've felt it before. It feels so foreign and unlike me in too many ways. It boils and spills and I bite into a pillow to scream. I had forgotten how deliciously freeing was was to scream. I stay on the side of the bed, leaned over a pillow. I stay there. Just a moment. Just a little while. I stare blankly at the window. Someone knocks on my already open door.

"You okay?" I mutter that I am fine. "Just thought I heard something." And they leave. I do not take note of who it is, only that it was not Desmond. I suspected it not to be Shaun, either; he would not be the type to bother with someone like me.

I push myself up on my legs yet again and walk to the door. I stand in the doorway for a moment. I really do not know what to do with myself. I wander back down to the kitchens. Rebecca is not there. I carefully, slowly tread around the room. I notice a broom, a mop and a bucket in the corner between the fridge and the glass doors. Above the fridge are various bottles of cleaning products. On my toes, I reach for one. The top of the fridge is dusty, and, dare I say, rather disgusting. I bat away clouds of dust and pop open the bottle. It has never been used. I should hardly be surprised. I tear off the small paper cover, spin the cap back on and empty roughly a quarter of the bottle in the bucket. Bringing the bucket to the sink, I fill it up with as much water as I can. I grab the mop and start making myself useful.

I start out cleaning the floor. Upon noticing how it goes from grey to white, I quickly finish cleaning it. I move onto cleaning the makeshift counters. They, too, change colors. (Though only slightly; most likely from cutting greens and such) I clean the top of the fridge. I dump the contents of the top on a towel on the counter. I clean the fridge from bottom to top, and then move onto cleaning the windows with a relatively clean rag. Needless to say, it isn't as white when I am done with it. I clean the tables and the small stove.

It takes me roughly two hours to clean everything, and when Lucy comes down with Desmond at her heels, both are amazed.

"I didn't even know the floors were supposed to be white." I do not know who says it, but it is sufficcient to make me laugh.

"You did all this?" Lucy asks, her expression a strange mix and gawking and frowning.

"I thought I should make myself useful." I explain shortly, wondering what else I should say. "The floor looked a bit strange, and then it was the counters then the fridge and I… I just sort of got carried away I guess." I smile sheepishly, and slump down in one of the chairs.

"I was going to take you up to the Animus next, but would you like to rest a bit instead?" Lucy asks. I look at Desmond; he looks tired and a bit disconcerted. I wonder for a moment if it is because of the Animus. If it is, my already being tired would only make me comatose afterwards.

"Yeah, I'll… maybe I'll just lounge around for a bit." I reply quietly, finding that my lap is very interesting.

"Thought so." Lucy smiles and head back for the stairs. "Rebecca's probably going to come looking for you in a couple hours. That okay?" I nod, and the blonde goes up the stairs and out of sight.

Desmond stays, however. He lingers in the doorway. I stare at him for a moment; he is looking at the floor and looks rather… Worried does not quiet cut it. He seems _preoccupied_. I consider asking why when he raises his head.

"I-I, uh… are you okay?" I ask, stuttering and unsure whether he heard me or not.

"Yeah, fine." Desmond sighs and walks towards the table I am at. This is the third time he does this today. My lips twitch and ghost a smile for a second.

"I'll be right back." I gasp, staring wide-eyed at the older man across the table. He is about to raise his head when I shoot up. "And do. Not. Move."

I rush up the stairs, clumsily jumping over several steps at a time as I race to my room. I jump on my messenger bag and practically dump its content on my bed. I snatch the notebook, pencil and eraser and race back downstairs. By the time I reach the kitchen doorway, I am out of breath. However, Desmond has not moved. I am greatful for that beyond measure. I sit back down at the table and take a few deep breaths. A few click of my mechanical pencil. I begin to draw.

"I'm really sorry." I mutter, my eyes regularly darting from Desmond's more than perplexed look to the paper I eagerly scratch at. "I usually don't subject people to this. But I don't think either of us have anything better to do right now."

"No problem. Only time someone ever did a protrait of me was when Leon…"

Desmond's voice trails. I stop drawing for a moment to stare up at him. Again, he bears the expression of a man far too burdened.

"Leonardo?" I enquire softly, turning my head back to the page.

"Da Vinci."

In a violent twitch I blame on surprise, my mechanical pencil goes flying somewhere to my left. It lands only two or three feet further. I cannot help but ignore it. I stare at Desmond in a way I know is extremely awkward.

"A portrait of you." I articulate slowly. "By Da Vinci."

Desmond shakes his head slowly, unconvincingly. "My ancestor and he used to be good pals. Da Vinci offered Ezio a portrait for all the trouble he went through trying to save the world from Templars."

That word again. That deliciously infuriating word.

I do not realise that my hand is grasping the table until Desmond points it out to me. My knuckles are white. When I release the poor, harmless table, my hand aches. Thankfully it is only the left hand, and I can continue to draw. I stand and pick up the forgotten mechanical pencil and return to my drawing.

"I hate Templars."

The voice is almost otherworldly, and I barely recognise it as mine. The low, menacing tone is something I have never heard myself use before, and it frightens me. Though, I notice, the majority of the loathing and disgust is concentrated in only the last two syllables. This, however, does not surprise me.

"They're the ones who tried to kill my family, aren't they?" I ask quietly. I still frequently tap Desmond with my pencil to keep him from moving too much.

"Yeah."

I tense involuntarily.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the odd festive music returns. People laughing and and singing, and that voice. That whispering voice beckoning me into the confines of my own mind. The sounds are all faint, though; it can easily be brushed off as wind. Being at I am in a room with no ceiling fans and no open windows, I worry. I did not particularly like the feeling I got in the plane, and Desmond's urgency to wake me up reinforced that discomfort.

"Hey, are you alright?"

The words are lost on me. I am caught up in my art, my thoughts and the incessant noise at the back of my mind. I brush him off with a wave of my hand. I remind him not to move. The sounds progressively quiets down and I enjoy having the haven of my mind be left alone again.

"Here. I think it's… about done." I scratch down sevreal more lines. I spin the notepad around and gently push it towards Desmond. "I'unno, I think the nose looks sort of off."

"Wow. It's like looking in a mirror." Desmond gives a lopsided grin at his portrait. He frown for a second and passes the notepad back to me.

"I don't know why but," I start, reclaiming the notepad. It is my turn to frown at it. "it's like my hand wouldn't let me draw your nose straight. I would just continuously draw the same line over and over again. It's weird."

"Actually, one of the ancestors I had to follow around, Altaïr," The sensation that comes with hearing that name feels like a punch in the gut. I cover the lack of air and nod. "he got punched in the face a couple time. Your drawing probably looks more like him than it does me."

"Okay, that just went from weird to really…" I take a deep breath. "…really creepy." A shudder runs up my spine. I recognise this as conflict; the mention of this man, Altaïr, right after mention of Templars--I almost gag at the thought--somehow confuses me. As though both should not be thought or mentioned within the same day, let alone the same several minutes.

"Do you think it's alright if I sleep a bit..?" I ask Desmond quietly. I look up at him for a moment. She shrugs, gives me another lopsided grin.

"I don't see why not. They're not coming for you for a couple hours right?" I nod. "Then you're fine. I'll come wake up you in two hours."

"Oh, no, that's fine. Lucy said Rebecca'd come get me." I mutter, face flushing. A frown slides on my face, only for a fraction of a second. If Desmond notices, he does not mention it.

"Suit yourself."

I get up and, for some reason, bow my head. I leave the notepad, pencil and eraser on the table. I do not feel like bothering myself with carrying them back up. It is somewhat childish, I suppose, but I do not really care. I close the door to my room carefully. It has become a habit to be silent wherever I go. I wonder why. I slip under the covers of the bed. Underneath them, I eagerly take off the black shirt and toss it on the floor. My skin feels too heated for my body and my eyes sting. I place a hand to my forehead. I do not have a fever, though because my hands are cold it feels that way. I sigh and pull the covers closer to me. I close my eyes and listen only to my breathing and try to fall asleep.

Just as I begin to slip into unconsciousness, the whispering voice is there again. It is at the back of my mind, keeping me awake. It is painfully annoying. The music is faintly present behind the voice, supporting it. It does not sound human. It sounds like a snake, luring its prey nearer. I ignore it for a moment, humming to myself. Successfully preoccupied, the voice becomes louder. Not overbearingly so, but enough to become even more harassing. I groan and cover my head with a pillow. I know this will not stop the voice but it liberates my frustration.

The feeling invades me with no forewarning.

_A noose is placed around my neck as I stand on the wood stage of the gallows. I feel my face is hard and my will is of steel. I stare into the crowd and smile. I smile as though the day is beautiful and the clouds and scarce. I smile as though I will live through this ordeal._

_I know I will not._

_I was the one meant to be the savior, the hero. Who will save the savior, now that she is the one to be executed? Voices shout in disagreement, other jeer and men spit at my feet. I am proud nonetheless._

_I am asked if I have any final words. I am amused by this. They will not let me finish regardless of what messages I mean to bring. I smile at the man at the lever, smile at my accuser. I face the crowd._

_"I was born a martyr. I shall die a martyr. I shall die for your sins the way our Christ has died for your sins. I shall die as Noble Joan of Arc has died. I hold my head proud and my sword high!"_

_My throat collapses on itself and my head feels like it is about to explode. I hear a cry in the crowd. I allow one tear to roll down my cheek, only one. I gasp one final prayer; this death is long and painful. I knew this._

_Darkness. No white dove flies away. Instead, an eagle cries and devours the head of a small mouse._

The choking sensation does not leave me when I open my eyes. I cough and gag and sputter. No air enters or leaves my lungs. I try to calm myself, reason with myself. I stumble out of bed. My goal is to make as much sound as possible. I manage to push myself to my knees. I throw myself against the dresser. With my feet, I kick down the night stand. It drags the alarm clock and fragile lamp with it. Within seconds, my room is crowded. I should feel self-conscious, without a shirt. My survival overrides everything else. I need to breathe, and I need to breathe soon. I can feel my lungs aching for air that they cannot receive.

I beg to every God and messiah in the universe to spare my life. It would be a waste for these men and women to have saved me if I were to die here.

I wheeze and gasp for air. I claw at my throat, knowing the motion is useless. But perhaps if I put enough pressure on my throat, I will--

My nose is pinched and my chin is pulled down. Someone exhales into my mouth. The air passes. I take the carbon dioxyde-laced oxygen greedily. Someone compresses my chest several times. My head feels light. I feel obnoxiously dizzy, for being sprawled on the ground.

Another intake of air. More compressions.

I still cannot breathe. The edge of my vision is becoming white. Unconciousness, my mother told me, brings black. Is this death? Will I die?

Fingers press harshly on the side of my throat. Two others on my wrist. Swearing. More breaths and more compression. I feel the tears rolling past my temples and onto the hardwood floor. This can't possibly be happening to me.

"Fight."

The voice is so unfamiliar that I feel like I own it all the same.

"Fight, Jordan."

 _Anneliese_.

"Fight. You have it in you. I was able to fight it. So can you." The whispering voice returns with a vengeance. "Breathe, Jordan! Don't let us down. Your gift of reading Man needs to live, Jordan. The world needs you."

I shudder. My heart had been beating erratically up until now. Its beats are lesser and lesser. The seconds are more than the beats.

"Fight!"

The whispering voice hisses something in an unknown language. Without knowing how or why, I understand its meaning perfectly.

 _The witch shall die_.

The words infuriate me. I almost immediately clench my fist and sock whatever lay in front of me. I cough and sputter, and I can finally breath. Stars and snakes dance around in my vision. I am too dizzy to sit up, much less stand. I remain sprawled on the floor. My right knuckles hurt.

They hurt like a _bitch_.

"Damn brat punched me! She literally socked me dead!"

A woman laughed anxiously. I am helped into a sitting position. My heart leaps into my throat. I take deep breaths to prevent my breakfast from coming up. I slowly steady my breathing, oblivious to the calls around me. A jacket is thrown over my shoulders; I tug it closer around me, greatful for the coverage.

"Are you alright?"

"What happened?"

"What's your name?"

"What year are we?"

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

My mind is exceptionally clear and vacant. I register every and any question asked from the moment Desmond shakes me out of my stupor.

"Yes, I don't know, Jordan Powell, 2012 and you're not even holding any fingers up you bastard." I aim to sigh but cough instead. Desmond's arm tightens around my shoulders. He asks if I'm okay. "I feel like shit." I mutter quietly. I dry my eyes on my shoulders and shudder.

"Maybe the Animus isn't such a good idea right now." Lucy says. As she gets up, I call for her.

"I want to see how she died." I declare. My voice is raspy. If feels like I've swallowed a box of nails after having chain-smoked for fifty years.

Desmond stares down at me, brow raised. Lucy stand in the doorway, as if frozen. Shaun is sitting on the floor rather disgruntled. Rebecca is nursing his jaw, which I assume is what my fist unceremoniously connected with.

"Oh my god." I inhale sharply--consequently cough--and rush over to Shaun's side. He flinches as I rest a hand on his shoulder. Rebecca only slightly moves backwards. I turn his head towards me. His bleeding nose is the least of my worries; the already blossoming bruise is what makes my stomach run laps on itself.

"It's fine." the Brit bats my hand away. "A little ice and it'll be fine." He moves to stand, obviously a little shaken. Rebecca stands with him and carefully drags him off in some direction or another.

"You can go in the Animus tonight." Lucy announces, and leaves the room. I only half-smile. The reluctance and annoyance in her voice are utterly dissuasive.

Nevertheless, it's a chance to go back in the Animus. I doubt for a moment. Lucy will surely not introduce me to the memory I want. Then again, I suppose it is better that way. To project me directly to the memory of Anneliese's death would be painful beyond imagination. Not to mention the shock of it all would last too many days. Desmond grabs my elbow to help me stand. I thank him quietly. I begin apologising profusely. He asks me why and I cannot help but laugh at the insane question.

"Why? You're _asking_ me why I'm sorry?" I'm aware that I sound slightly unstable. "I've been one _shitload_ of trouble from the minute I got here. Now I have to go punch Shaun in the--god I don't even want to know what he thinks of me now!"

I let myself fall back to the floor. I shove my entire weight on Desmond's arm when I notice he tries to keep me standing. I drag him with me for a second, but he quickly kneels beside me. He tries to explain that it's no trouble, that whatever happened wasn't my fault. I punched someone--no, nevermind that.

_I made someone bleed._

The words ring so clearly in my head that it aches. It aches with a familiar pain that know I have never felt. The clenching in my chest returns and I gag once or twice. There is a smell, something distinct. I somehow know this to be posies.

"She's in my head, Desmond." I whisper. My eyes are closed, but tears still pool at the corners. "My voice echoes hers, my thoughts repeat hers, and I keep…" My voice cracks dangerously. "I keep seeing people die."

"Who do you see, Jordan?" Desmond's voice is quiet. He tries to reassure me again; I truly am falling apart. I have now lost count of the times I have lost myself. This is not acceptable. I am far better than this.

"Two-two men at the gallows. And… and a boy. Dear god, the boy…" I do not open my eyes. "They're hung for nothing. Someone else calls for his father. And I roll under the stage but god, Desmond, I don't know what happens after that. I never see what happens next!"

"They're fine." Desmond says sternly. He is hiding something from me too.

"Oh god…"

"You saved them, Jordan. You cut the ropes because they could strangle the three. You saved them, you hear?" His hand are on my shoulders. They shake me roughly. He does not believe a word he's just said. His eyes glaze over. I know instantly he knows of the three I spoke of. He knows them closely. Relatives of his anestor?

"I didn't. I didn't save them. I'm not a savior. How can a savior be killed? No one can save the savior."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Around this point in time is when I decided that length didn't matter, and that I would write chapters of whatever length I would want them to be. Ah, yes, and there is some... sensitive language. Well, I suppose it was inevitable.
> 
> I haven't proofread this chapter yet, as it is half past three in the morning, and I am at work, and I am profoundly bored but unwilling to read over myself. I shall do that eventually.


	7. Ἀποκάλυψις

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apokalypsis. The Greeks always had the right ideas. Revelations aren't always what you were hoping for, and it can, sometimes, in fact, feel like it is the end of the world.

_The quill in my hand is shaking ferociously. I am not nervous nor anxious. I am angry. This rage consumes me and I write everything down. They have granted me a quill, an inkwell and some parchment. This is a luxury among luxuries for someone such as myself. I do not write to my lover, my husband or my unborn child. I do not write something long and fastidious. Instead, these few words:_

_"À LA POTENCE, QUI SAUVERA LE SAUVETEUR? QU'ON M'ENLÈVE LA VIE AUJOURD'HUI, SANS ATTENDRE L'AN DE DEMAIN, SI JE NE SUIS PAS SAUVETEURE. QU'ON M'ARRACHE LES YEUX, QU'ON ME COUPE LES MAINS. JE NE ME RENDRAI JAMAIS. MA MORT SERA LE DÉBUT D'UNE NOUVELLE ÈRE. FEMME SERA HOMME ET HOMME SERA LIBRE DE SES CORDES.  
JE T'AIME, JE TE HAIS, AU REVOIR, JE REVIENDRAI DEMAIN." _¹

_I laugh. Laugh and laugh. I laugh until it aches to breathe. My lungs are sore. My sides burn. I laugh and finally adress the letter. I send it to a man I know will have good use for it. His name will never be forgotten.  
I hope, desperately hope that he will understand my message. He is not known to be so witty. But perhaps his own hope will overshadow his better judgement. Perhaps--and my heart clenches at the thought that things may be otherwise--he will go looking for the object of my message. He will know where to go._

_He will know where to go if he remembers who and what I am and have done._

(We can't keep her there. She's losing sync.)

_I lay in bed. The harsh cotton sheets brush against blossoming bruises. I know the origins of most of them. They are from my sparring with my uncle. As his pupil, he treats me as he would another boy. I pull my hair up and wear loose clothing. Because he treats me as an equal I get stronger. He is much harsher with me than he would be otherwise.  
The other, older bruises hurt most. They have become purple and green and yellow. The color is repulsive. However, being as I am covered all day long, no one notices. No one sees the pain and anguish. My father is a good man. I love him with all my heart, I truly do. But I cannot help but wonder what I have done to deserve such treatment. Have I been awful to him? Have I been disrespectful or ignorant? Have I not accomplished my duties as a woman? I have questionned him only once; never again. Never again._

_I turn around. My shoulders hurt. My entire body feels like it is throbbing. I slowly creep to the edge of my bed. I cannot sleep. I carefully walk to my balcony. The air is cool. My nightwear is practically still; there is no wind . My hands are on the stone rail that is in front of me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath._

_Two._

_Three._

_I become increasingly aware of the bushes below. They shake and ruffle. There is no wind tonight. Only a breeze that does not catch my hair. I smile into the wind._

_She is here._

_"I've told you not to visit me for a fortnight." I whisper to the air. She hears me. I know she hears me. She chuckles. "You know what will happen to us if we are caught. You should go home."_

_"And leave a beautiful maiden alone on such a night? Frankly, I'd rather stay in these bushes."_

_Before I can contest her decision, she skillfully clibs the wall. She leaps quietly--gracefully--onto my balcony. Her smile is illuminated by the light of the moon. She looks like an angel, under this light. I stand my ground, do not move. She takes silent steps towards me. Her eyes never leave mine. They shine with a gleam I know all too well. I close my eyes and smile as well.  
I take several steps back until my back is against the stone railing. Her entire body is pressed up against mine. My body quivers in pain, but the shudder is ignored. Her hands rake up my arms, carrying the heavy sleeves. I shiver at the touch. Her fingers are cold. How long has she been waiting outside? Would she have stayed there all night, had I not come out?_

_Her breath washes over my lips. I quiet my breathing; I stop breathing altogether. She gives an airy chuckle. a hand presses against the curved in my back. Our bodies press closer. Her lips are tantalizingly close. I can almost feel them on mine, yet they are not.  
I lean forward, but she turns her head. Only the slgihtest bit; I kiss her cheek._

_"You'll be hung before I ever am." She whispers. Her lips are on my ear. I shudder again. "And I'll have my eyes conveniently removed from my sockets. Perhaps my hands will be cut off, and my genitalia as well."_

_"Well worth the effort." I breath. Her lips are at my neck. She trails kisses to my collarbone. "Stop that." I growl. I grab a fistful of her hair in my hand and force her lips on mine._

_Another bruise to add to the list._

I sit up suddenly, with no forewarning whatsoever. I gasp for air and clutch my chest and the empty space in front of me. The needle shoved in my wrist suddenly begins to throb. The pain only ever increases. I tear it out in complete disregard of what Lucy is trying to tell me. What  _was_  that?

"What the fucking hell's going on?!" I screech. I still try to catch my breath. It isn't of any use. I detest the way my entire body feels on fire and how my hands are still shaking.

"We-we couldn't put you directly into the memory of her death, we had to go to something older and less intense." Lucy explains. She almost sounds worried. Why is she worried? There's aboslutely nothing wrong.

Aside from the fact that I now know why my ancestor was hung; I assume her father didn't take lightly to her rolls in the bed with another woman.  
And again, did I really need to know that?

"I'm sorry, we didn't know what would happen." The blond says again, sounding much more upset than worried now. I frown and rub my eyes with the heel of my palms. I try to shove my eyes in the back of my head; I need to forget what I saw. I need to forget about it.

"At least now we know why she was hung." Rebecca comments lightly. She tried to lighten the mood. It isn't doing much good at all.

"It wasn't the same person." I scowl at her. As if she could make the difference between the two; why am I upset? Why am I so angry with her?

The room is quite for a moment. Still nursing his injury, Shawn continues typing. He is apparently unphased by the events around him. I hadn't expected him to care either, but I find myself rather offended that he is ignoring everything. Lucy walks up to me and rests a hand on my shoulder. I feel an echo of Anneliese's pain through my nerves. I flinch, but do not shrug away the hand.  
Rebecca does not pay attention to me anymore. She is focused on what she is doing. Lucy leads me back to my room. I do not even pay attention to myself. I blindly follow her to wherever she leads me. I find myself in the kitchen when I am sat down.

"I'll make you a cup of coffee, okay?"

I nod.

The coffee burns my throat and stings as it moves through my body. I ignore the pain. Anything to get rid of the horrible impression of being hung and lacking air. Lucy walks me back to my room and tells me to sleep. She says that I must be tired. That I need my sleep after everything today. It is not anything much. I lived through the hanging of someone in my bloodline. Coincidentally, I punched the man trying to ressucitate me and dreamt that said ancestor was a closet lesbian.

No, nothing happened at all.

There is a poison in my thoughts that does not belong there. I go on thinking that perhaps this is the bleeding effect. I have heard Desmond and Lucy talking about it several times. I do not know how much exposure one needs to suffer it. Or perhaps I am doubly prone to it? Because of my empathy?  
I do not know and something leads me to believe I do not want to know.

I do not drift to sleep immediately. I linger a while on my ancestor's memories. These were distinctively Anneliese's. But what of the woman that was hung? What is her name? Though I has seen life through her eyes and been in her mind, I have never known her name. She never thinks it. She constantly refers to herself as "the savior" or "la sauveteure". I suspect the latter is some form of a legacy. It had felt like a duty, something passed down through generations.  
My mind suddenly turns to the letter the other woman wrote. What had it meant to say? The last line is burned in my mind. "I love you, I hate you, farewell, I'll come back tomorrow." Why so many conflicting things? Love and hate, a farewell but with a promise of coming back again. She was condemned to death, at the gallows, in the public square--I know this. I know this all too well. Why would she claim to come back tomorrow?

"À la potence, qui sauvera le sauveteur?"

The ghostly voice makes my blood freeze in my veins. I am certain that this is my imagination. There is something foreboding about the voice. Something cold and familiar and frightening.  
I curl up on the bed and hug the covers closer. I am tired and scared. Several minutes pass. I remain this way until I reach for my mp3 player. I clumsily search for the right buttons. Soon, all sound is drowned. The voice does not linger there. I sigh.

Sleep only lasts for so long. In such a foreign environment, I know I am bound to wake up many times every night. When I open my eyes it is almost one in the morning. I groan and sit up in my bed. I aim for my notebook, but reluctantly pull my hand back to myself. No matter where I go, no single place contains enough light to draw. I sigh, run a distraught hand through my hair.

My dreams are becoming increasingly frustrating. They show me glimpses and flashes of men and women I do not know. I feel I should remember though, and this unnerves me. There is a part of my brain that rages every time. It was tolerable, almost funny, at first. When you sleep several times a night and are given several chances to dream every night…  
I wring my hands in my lap. I stare blankly at the alarm clock on the small night stand. I want to go see Desmond. I want to talk to him. It upsets me to the point where I feel my pulse accelerating. I can almost see the veins in my arms. They become increasingly visible when I grow anxious. I stand up and pace around my room. I am careful to avoid the window. It scares me, and I know it is because of my dream. I can still see the man in white, feel the sting of the metal in my abdomen. My hand reaches for my stomach by itself. The wound is not there, I know it; I still feel a pang of anxiety at the mere thought of it.

After standing still for several moment, I begin t pace again. I walk back and forth. The floor feels like ice under my feet. My entire body feels like it is on fire, like I am running a too-high fever. I place a hand on my forehead. My hand is as cold as the floor. I am anxious beyond reasonable measures. I deliberate for several minutes while I pace. I finally settle on going to the kitchen. I would make myself a cup of coffee, doodle, and go back to bed. Or maybe a glass of water would be enough…  
I lazily drag myself to the hallway, through the door and down the stairs. The light that assaults me at the bottom makes me wince and frown. The kitchen's neon lights are on. Who was stupid enough to leave the lights open? Or, maybe…

I quietly tiptoe to the door, aware of the futility of the action. I curl my fingers around the edge of the doorway. I glance around though my eyes quickly stay glued to the tables.

"Can't sleep either?"

The words catch me off guard. I take a step backward and hide behind the wall. My breathing is fast and irregular. Why am I hiding? I have done nothing wrong, and he already knows I am here. But how? I am sure I was, at least, fairly quiet. I had not heard myself make a sound. And he had not looked up from the notepad that he was--

"Oh god, you're not reading that are you?" I cry, running to the table. I lunge for the notebook, but Desmond holds it just out of my reach.

"Hey, it's not my fault you left it there." His eyes are closed. He takes a sip of his mug of coffee, still holding the book just out of my reach. The table is digging into my stomach as I still try to reach a little further.

I sigh in resignation and slump against the table. That notebook is filled with streams of consciousness, poetry and random drawings. Nothing is very revealing of myself, however it is still something rather personal. To have someone read all that… moreover, to have someone read about my thoughts on suicide and self-harm?  
I shudder and hold back a sob. I am not ashamed. I am simply extremely embarassed.

"You have killer talent though." Demond says. I hear the sound of flipping pages. Metal rings quietly click against the white table. "Your writing. It's pretty intense. Were you studying in literature?"

"Ye-yeah." I mutter weakly. I stand up properly. My eyes are riveted on the notebook. "I was in my second semester."

The thought finally strikes me.

_I'm never seeing my friends again. I'm never going back to college._

I stop breathing for a second.

No, Jordan. Calm down. You'll see them again. Once you're done here and these people get what they want, you'll go home with everyone. They'll all be waiting for you and you'll have a normal life again. You'll stop seeing dead men and boys, you'll stop hallucinating men in white and you'll stop feeling invisible pain. You'll be fine and safe and perfectly sane when you get home. You're going home. You'll be able to go home.  
But the denial only pushes back so much of the pain and anguish.

"Hey, Desmond."

He looks up. I sit down. I can't quite register my actions anymore. My thoughts override everything else.

"I'm not going home."

He looks at me just that much more intently. He frowns. I stare blankly at--what am I staring at?

"Well, I don't…" He pauses. His frown increases only slightly more. "You probably will."

"You're not going home. Why should I?"

He stays quiet. His frown lessens. Have I said something wrong?

"I don't have a home to go back to." Desmond speaks quietly. I wonder why? "Even though your house burned down, you still have a home, Jordan. You have parents and a brother and friends that are probably already missing you. I don't have any of that."

"Why not?"

"I ran away."

It is my turn to remain quiet. I am not quite sure how to respond to that. The onslaught of questions may be too much for him. Perhaps I should be a good girl and stay quiet for a moment, and not ask anything. Maybe I should leave Desmond to his contemplative silence. Maybe I should go back to my room--completely ignoring my previous desire to drink something--and sleep and pretend nothing happened. It is my turn to frown. I haven't the slightest idea how to react.

"I was sixteen. I ran away because I felt like a prisoner and I wanted to see what the world was really like." There is something strange with his voice. Although I feel the anger and the resentment, there is so much confusion that I, myself, am confused.

"But you're forgetting something." I whisper. I stare at the table. I wonder for a second why it is I spoke, but I stop wondering. I am tired and consequently have no restraint. Yes, that is my excuse.

"I can hardly remember anything before being a bartender. I can't remember the compound or my parents' faces. Or their voices. I can't remember jack shit about that."

I stay silent. That was what the confusion was. I let my eyes close. Somehow, being around Desmond makes it easier to be drowsy and slip in and out of full awareness. I let my head rest in my arms on the table. Desmond asks me if I'm tired and I honestly reply that yes, yes I am. But I can't find it in myself to sleep. He offers to walk me up to my room. I agree, but not before having myself a glass of water first.  
I feel the warmth of his hand as his hovers behind my shoulder. I have the lingering suspicion he thinks I will fall down. Perhaps he thinks I will have another fit as I climb the stairs? I would not be surprised if I do just that. I seem to be having a lot of awkward visions lately, more than I ever have before. I do not question them, though. I am positive that whatever these visions are, they are the reason why these people have kept me in this place. They are why Desmond and Lucy need me. Something in these visions will help them. I need to endure the brunt of the pain and keep a straight face.

Desmond leads me to my room. In my half-conscious state, I barely notice he tucks me in. I motion to grab his arm. I ask him to stay with me until I fall asleep.

"It's easier to sleep with you around. You… your emotions aren't as conflicting as everyone elses'." I whisper. My eyes are closed and my words are, I know, very slurred. I try to articulate as much as I can with no real results. I hear him sigh. He mutters some form of a response. When I feel a weight in front of me--convenienty at the edge of the bed near the nightstand--I realise he has agreed.

"But only until you fall asleep. I'm hightailing it out of here the minute I hear you snore."

I scoff. "You don't even know if I snore when I sleep." He mutters a half-hearted curse. I smile into the pillow. I drift in and out of consciouness several times within the same minute. I try to keep myself awake, though alertness evades me. I barely take notice that he is takling to me. He is telling me story. Something about a woman living in Italy, someone his ancestor knew. She was beautiful, he said, beyond words.

"She wasn't noble, or rich or remotely high placed. But everyone knew her everywhere she went anyways. She wasn't exactly a supermodel either y'know? But man she was smart as all hell. She actually had a private teacher. A lot of creeps called her a spawn of the devil, cause get this: rumors ran around that she was actually picking up on swordsmanship because of her uncle. Religious nuts said she was a witch but others said she was Joan of Arc's revenge. Pretty crazy, right?"

I nod briefly, not entirely sure whether or not the movement is big enough for Desmond to notice. If he doesn't, he continues on. He talks about how this woman was some kind of God-sent angel. He tells me about a time when she saved hundreds of people from executions she had known to be unfair. He says that her plans were almost always flawless. Apparently, she planned ahead so well that even the slightest modification was accounted for and had a backup plan.  
One thing bothers me when he speaks. There is a pang of jealousy when he talks about this other-worldly woman. It is as though he speaks of her with endearment well beyond a friendly level. It irritates me though I do not take the time to properly assess the feeling. It is late, and I do not want to bother myself with such trivial things. Though I am in fact fairly positive that my thoughts are the furthest thing from trivial I would be finding in quite some time. I disregard myself completely after a few moments and give myself into Desmond's voice. I let it lull me to sleep. I do not pay much attention to what it is he says. I notice when he gets up and leaves, but I fall into unconsciousness long before I can fully register the lack of presence.

I wake up later in the morning with Lucy standing in the doorway. She says that I need to go down for breakfast and that next she'll have me go in the Animus before Desmond. I find myself confused yet happy with this. Maybe Desmond will be able to sleep in a little more? Maybe he won't be as exhausted in the afternoon?  
But he is there at the table when I go down the the makeshift kitchen-dining room. He carefully nurses a cup of coffee as he reads through a thick book. I sit down in front of him as I usually do. It isn't very long until the British man shoves a plate in front of me and orders me to eat. I still feel horrible for what I did to Shaun the day before, but I force myself to ignore the guilt and eat quietly. Lucy and Rebecca speak together somewhere behind me.

My notebook is still at the edge of the table where Desmond left it earlier that morning. I slowly slide it towards me and crack it open. My squiggly, barely-legible handwriting greets me and for the first time in a while I feel somewhat I home. The words that describe my brother's rather stupid actions and my mother's fits and my father's clueless attitude make me smile. I turn the pages and read only the happier ones. I read about my groupe dinners with my friends and about the date with my boyfriend.

My boyfriend.

I push my chair back in shock and disgust. I have not thought about him for a second since I was brought to this place. I have only thought about myself, my ancestors, the man in white and--I admit!--Desmond. I have not spared a second for the man I'd deemed to be the one holding the key to my heart.  
Desmond lifts his gaze from his book and asks me what is wrong.

"I have a boyfriend." I state weakly, staring wide-eyed at the plate in front of me without really seeing it. "I haven't thought about him once since I got here. I'm a horrible person."

Desmond places a hand on mine and tries to comfort me. I pull my hand away and stand and leave for my room. Rebecca intercepts me and tell me that I should go to the Animus room instead. I only nod and go there instead. I find myself praying that, by some unforetold miracle, I will be able to spend a session in the Animus without seeing something remotely shocking or disgusting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹: "At the gallows, who will save the savior? May they take my life today, without waiting for the after of morrow, if I am not the savior. Let them tear out my eyes, let them cut off my hands. I will never surrender. My death will be the beginning of a new era. Woman shall be Man and Man shall be set free of his binds.  
> I love you, I hate you, Farewell, I'll come back tomorrow."
> 
> I think this is where my mind started getting... confused with what I was writing. By all means, if you see anything that doesn't make the slightest sense, feel free to comment and point out all the (what I'm sure are numerous) flaws. Criticism leads to a betterment of the self, or some such thing.


	8. διάλειμμα

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.  
> Please keep all my loved ones safe. Please make me happy, just for a second.  
> Amen to you, twinkling sun.

It's snowing outside. Like it usually is this time of year.

I'm curled up in one of those odd white, curved chairs that could fit three of me. I'm snuggly bundled up in a thick cotton shirt, a sweater, and the comforter from the bed I sleep on. I wrapped it around myself after getting dressed and dragged it to the kitchen with me.  
I quietly, slowly nurse a steaming cup of piping hot coffee. I hold it, my hands covered with the comforter. This way I can still have the mug's comforting warmth without burning my fingerprints right off. I ponder on that for a second. Wouldn't it, actually, be better for me to burn my fingerprints off? This way I wouldn't be able to be tracked down. Or, in the least, it would make finding me that much harder.

Desmond sits down in front of me and hands me a notebook. It is the same notebook I write in, draw in and treasure. I smile half-heartedly and thank him. He compliments me on my latest sketches. It isn't much; only faces. Some of them I see in my dreams, some of them are Lucy and Shaun. I never draw Desmond, though. I am not quite sure why, but there is something about him I cannot dare try to draw again. After that day, I do not think back on the man in white, nor do I consider drawing either of them anymore. The look of mild shock and confusion that was drawn on Desmond's face the day he saw that particular portrait was something that profoundly unnerved me.

"I like what you wrote." He says lightly, trying to start some idle conversation.

"I don't like it much. I suck." I mutter in the comforter. I take another sip of my mug of coffee. It scalds my tongue. It doesn't take long for it to feel scratchy and fuzzy. Desmond smirks in front of me. I stick my tongue out at him and frown.

"You don't like the winter, do you?"

"Oh, I love the winter." I reply quickly, with much more enthusiasm than I had intended. "It just doesn't really like me."

"Yeah? Why's that?" Desmond asks, resting his head on his left hand, conveniently propped up on the table.

"Lack of sunlight. That's what seasonal depression's all about. The freaking sun."

The conversation does not stop there. But it ceases to interest me and I only give half-assed answers from thereon out. My mind is elsewhere; I wonder what the rest of my family is doing. I wonder if my brother is still drawing, as I am. I wonder if my father's started painting again, for lack of anything better to do.

And for a second, I wonder if they are even still alive.

The anxiety grips me tightly and Desmond's words are lost on me. I can feel my heart skipping several beats. My blood feels like stagnant ice. I can see the veins in my hands and wrists and arms. Snakes wrapping themselves around my limbs and paralysing me.

"…dan, Jordan. Snap out of it."

Desmond's hand on my arm shakes me out of my reverie. I just barely managed to keep the coffee mug straight. A drop spills over the side. I stare at it intently. I mull over its significance in the current situation. But I figure I am thinking too much--again--and ask Desmond if there is anything I can do.

"Uh…" He frowns in concentration for a moment. "We can go for a walk? I don't… Maybe we should ask Lucy."

"Bypass Lucy. Let's go." I say suddenly, leaving the mug of coffee on the table and already heading for the makeshift kitchen's door.

It takes a fair while to get ready to go outside. Of course, Desmond goes to warn Lucy of our outing. They exchange several words of rather significant importance. Lucy shoves two coats in Desmond's arms and tells him to get out of her sight. I smile broadly--more so than I have in a while--and gratefully slip into the thick, warm winter coat Desmond hands me. A blindfold remains in his right hand. I do not question this. I turn around almost automatically as he blindfolds me. He spins me around several times before he throws me over his shoulder. I give a squeak of surprise and laugh awkwardly.

"Is this really necessary?" I ask, slightly winded.

"Not really. But it's easier." He answer and I can almost hear the smile in his voice.

Ten minutes and a few stairs later, Desmond puts me back down on my own two feet. Slowly, he guides me towards a door. When he opens it, a gust of cold, biting winter air hits my air. I take a deep breath and cough. Nonetheless, I am more than thankful for the fresh air. At this point, anything beats the stuffy, stagnant, poisoned air inside the hideout.  
Desmond pulls on my arm and leads the way. We walk for several minutes--somewhere around the fifteen minute mark. Without any forewarning, he tears the blindfold off of my head and shoves me into a rather large mound of snow. I cannot resist the shriek and bark of laughter that ensue.

"You bitch!" I gasp, trying to breathe whilst laughing. I slowly push myself back up, but not after skillfully throwing a snowball at Desmond. Of course, he shatters it with a quick movement of his arm.

I am reminded of who he is for a moment.  
They are assassins. Killers. I know this. I am acutely aware of this. But this man--the one standing in front of me, brushing snow off his arm--is not an assassin. He is my temporary release.

* * *

Two hours later, Desmond and I are exhausted and rose-cheeked. My eyes sting when he brings me back inside, despite the blindfold keeping my eyes mildly cool. Tears well at the corners of my eyes. I quickly wipe them away when Desmond takes the blind off as we arrive on the second floor of the hideout.  
Lucy takes a few steps out of the Animus room to ask if I had a good time. She does not ask Desmond, does not even look at him. Rather, she smiles and politely asks me.

"It was awesome." I reply airily, staring up at Desmond in some fake childish admiration. "I'll never beat him in a snowball fight. He totally owned me!" I laugh. Desmond ruffles my hair and grins down at me.

"Good. I'm glad you had a good time." Lucy says with a smile that remind me that of my mother. I smile back at her as she walks back into the Animus room. I smooth out my air and look up at Desmond expectantly.

"You better change and throw your clothes in the red basket on your bed. Shaun's probably busy making dinner by now." Desmond suggests, before walking off to his own room.

This may be a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence…

But I wouldn't mind spending time like this with Desmond once in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Profound apologies to anyone still keeping up with this. I honestly completely forgot that I actually have works on here that I need to keep up with. Many apologies!


	9. ονειρεύομαι

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams. Sometimes it is hard to distinguish reality from our own dreams. They become such a part of us that they are nearly tangible. When you begin to wonder who and where you are is when you must begin to ask the right question.

My stay in the Animus is no more pleasant today than it was the day before. Rebecca inserts the needle in my arm; the left one, this time, because the crease of my elbow is swollen and an ugly purple-green. It doesn't take very long before I'm immersed in the Animus' white expanse. I don't want to hold back, today. I don't want to be me. If I can be Anneliese, I will. I want to forget about my stupid childish issues. I want to forget that I'm alive.

I hear Lucy tell me that they're going to try and get me closer to my ancestor's execution. She warns me that what I will witness will not be pleasant. I hadn't expected it to be. I don't mention that I'd hoped otherwise. I let the streets of Italy unfold and stretch in front of me, let my muscles ripple in a body strange and unfamiliar. Where I am doesn't matter. Who I am does.

* * *

I am Sofia-Mari and I am tall and proud. I am Man. I carry the blade better than many and live the life of adventure chlidren dream of. As I walk down the beaten dirt path, I wonder on this. My life is so full of all kinds of excitement. Even grown men would salivate at my tales. But what is this life I lead? I deceive everyone. I lie so much that, sometimes, I forget my own truth. This state of half-living, there is nothing glorious in it. There is only pain and deception and lies and fear.

There is always the sinking weight of fear in my body. I am always afraid. Someone may discover who I really am. Someone may recognize me. Someone may point me to the guards, and then what would I do? Someone may betray me. It has happened before. Marcus. Such a kind man. Such a kind face for a liar. He'd turned his back on me, on us. He'd lead the armies to us in the middle of the night. Lead them into our home, lead them to our families. It was a sin I could not tolerate. I could not let my friends sin in my stead. So I murdered him. Hung him from the rafters of his home. The streets spread the word of a suicide. It saddened me too much. But it was necessary, for all our sakes.

A pickpocket tries to steal my purse. I let him run a far way before taking in my surroundings. I catch faint glimpses of some of my friends. I see John, weaving between tall houses. I see Hariett, pretending to be interested in a vendor's wares. She keeps a close eye on me. Then I see Henri, carefully watching me from the shadows. I nod to him, quick and imperceptible. He goes after the youth who tried to rob me. We can offer him more. We can give him a life, if he would like one.

This family I have helped build, I have ties to it thicker than blood. This family I am still building. Every day, I see youths on the streets, prostitutes straying from their brothels. We offer them a life, not of salvation, but of freedom, of fighting for a cause. I know that, to many, I sound like a preacher, spreading the Word of God to all whom stop and listen. I know that my words sound forced and far too lovely to hold any truth to them. But they are what they are, they hold the meaning of what they are. We offer decrepit men a meaning and discarded women futures to dream of.

I continue to roam the busy market-streets, men calling out to me in a language that I am only still learning. I have Matteo next to me, translating what important things he hears to me, in that broken English of his. This country is as foreign to me as I am to it. The streets are as familiar as Matteo makes them to me, the face as distinct as they are to each other.

I am in my older age. I am nearing thirty. I am a relic in this family I have created. I am not its mother. Its godmother, perhaps, valiant and benevolent and watchful. I know that my time is to come soon, that my family will not require my guidance, soon. I had always known I would expire, some day.

I did not expect it to come in the form of an arrest.

Guards stumble onto the streets. I can see Hariett, her back straight as a rod, and I feel Matteo at my right, electrified with the anticipation of a battle. Peasants scurry away, steer clear of the armoured men with deadly, gleaming swords. They call out to me. One of them points his lance at me. They use my male alias.

"Johnson Andrews," he bellows, though those are the only words he speaks in my native tongue. Matteo vaguely translates for me under his breath. I do not need him to understand these words. They speak of treason and violations and arrests. The guards are almost upon us that archers on the roofs of houses spray their arrows. There are only three or four, up high, men and women alike. I do not know who sent them, though I am proud. They know to stand together, against a common enemy, for each other. We are a family, and we stand for our own.

The few guards still standing begin to climb walls to reach my archers. I know this to be futile. They have already run far from the danger below, hidden themselves in plain sight. I slowly draw my sword. The man with the lance still waits for me. He bellows something in Italian that I know to be an insult to my mother. I laugh. I have always laughed in the face of danger. I have no mother. They have robbed me of her.

The fight is short. For much of it, it is unclear who has the upper hand. Sometimes it is me, sometimes it is the guard. His lance proves him useless in close range combat. He soon discards it and draws his sword. His left leg is weak, most likely from an injury he'd suffered some weeks before. It is backhanded and not what I would usually do, but I place a kick to his left knee. The man crumples. I know his wife, have seen her around with her three little children, two beautiful daughters and a lovely little boy. He falls to his knees but his eyes do not contain terror. For a moment, my sword at his neck, he looks at me with a vicious mixture of contempt, disgust and surprise. It is only now that I realize that my hair has fallen around me. I wear a wrap and cap, as per my own norm, but they have both fallen off.

The guard insults me with a new vigor that I cannot bear to hear. He threatens my family. He calls Hariett a whore and so many others filthy urchins. I do not kill the man. I think of his wife and children, who will mourn him like I have mourned my own mother and father.

" _Non parlerete di me_ ," I say to his ear. The streets have emptied, stands vacated. No one is around but the few of my family who chose to stay behind should I need them. " _Non ricorderete me. Andrete vedete la vostra moglie. Lascerete la mia famiglia nella pace._ " The man turns away from me and spits to the ground, misses my boots. "I will kill them if I need to.  _Va._ "

The man gathers his bearings, his lance, and scampers away. I take my leave. I have plans to make. There is a map that we have found, that we have been left with. We were promised victory should we find what it leads to. I pick up my cap where it has fallen to the ground, gather my hair over my head. I walk away a man again. My family's tower is barely visible over houses and markets. Only one who knows what they are looking for would know what they see. Would recognize the tower for what it is.

The entrance is on the roof. Much like the tower itself, one will not find it if they do not already know where to look for it. I slip in, quiet, unnoticed, as I have for several years already. I must descend several staircases before arriving in the room where most of my brothers wait for me. I am praised for the brief battle I waged. Brothers clap me on the shoulder and thank me for the mercy I have shown. I bring them to order. The map is

The map is... Unclear. Why is the map unclear? There is a knife at each corner, intricate designs woven in metal. Why can I see the knives and not the map? Lines are blurred, borders are all but nonexistent.

I can't see the map.

( _Lucy, get her out of there._ )

Maybe it's just because... maybe I need to focus. Focus. Lines, lines, I can't I can't see anything anymore.

Matteo? Luka?

( _Come on, dammit, she's burning up!_ )

* * *

I don't remember the transition to the past from the white of the Animus to the room. I don't remember much at all. When I open my eyes it seems as though they were already open. Feels like I was sleeping with my eyes open. The room is too clear when I know it should be blurry. There aren't any sounds. For a moment I wonder if a bomb went off, if there was an explosion. Sound filters through eventually, but I can't make out words. Desmond, or maybe Shaun, hovers above me and shouts. I can't hear anything he says. Rebecca makes an appearance, maybe, and Lucy seems to float at the edge of my vision. None of it feels real.

I find myself wondering where Hariett is, where Deangelo and Nicoli are now. Where have they gone? Cotton in my ears. I hear voices. So many—too many voices.

I can see that I'm moving but I can't feel my legs. I know I'm on the floor but nothing feels like it should. There isn't any pain, any reason to move that I can think of. Someone lifts me off the ground and picks me up. I recite the first thing that come to mind. The words in my head sound muffled, but less so than everything else. I keep talking just to hear the sound of my own voice. It's nothing of what I want but it reassures me. Reminds me that I am Jordan and I live in the twenty first century. Probably. Wasn't I Sofia-Mari earlier? Who am I, really? Maybe this is the dream.

The walls around me move at a sickening speed. The lights are too bright. My room—is it mine?—is too dark in comparison. I can't see anything. There is cold and there is warmth and though I can feel all of this, why can I not feel my limbs? A shock of blonde hair appears and the entire world goes blank.

My dreams are restless.

They aren't notable in themselves. They are black and white and unexceptional. They do, however, rotate. Dreams come back at intervals and my mind can't keep up with what I'm seeing. What it's making me see. Men, women, fires, gallows, mansions, dilapidated houses; everything rotates and shifts and I can't remember anything at all. When I wake up—or maybe I was having waking nightmare and I was never really asleep. When I take a deep breath, it sounds too loud. For a moment I wish everything was quiet again.

Desmond's breathing is what makes me aware he's next to me. I sit up in bed. My head is swimming and the walls seem to collide. Maybe I groan, because Desmond shifts and wakes up in a chair that's been placed next to my bed. I can feel my head hitting the pillow but it feels like there isn't any gravity to properly speak of. Desmond calls my name but I need to tell him to stay quiet. His voice is too loud.

"Sorry," he mutters, running both hands over his head. He gets up and walks to the door. "I'm getting Lucy. Don't fall asleep again," is all he offers before he leaves. I'm overcome by nausea, and images flash around, blue and electrified. People walking, bustling. A trickle of people turning into a crowd and then disappearing like smoke. It scares me. I can't—there isn't any way for me to justify seeing all of it, any of it. I try to close my eyes but it's worse. The images are more vivid but there's too many overlapping images people sensations sights lights places—


	10. διασκέδαση

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diaskedasi. Sometimes, life provides us with too many things to handle at once. Though it is sometimes childish to resort to such methods, distractions may be the only things that make the difference between suffering and coping.

The first thing I see is white. Everything is white. I dreamt of something, I'm sure, but I cannot remember it. It most likely had something to do with the electric-like figured spirited in and out of my sight. Someone is busying themselves to my right. There are lights above me, too bright. They burn my eyes. I want to look around me but shifting my gaze brings my stomach to my throat. I close my eyes and turn my head. Everything feels numb as it did in my room. Something feels wrong.  
  
"You've awoken," the voice says. I notice for the first time that I am not on a bed or any form of furniture. I am on the ground and curled up on myself. My head is pounding, my stomach is lurching and I can barely bite back the tears. Something feels terribly, horribly wrong. In my head, in my body, in my bones. A warm hand seems to materialize itself on my arm. I flinch, and it is a reflex I am not aware of having and carrying with me. "It's alright. You are among family, here."  
  
The man's voice is deep, its cadence slow and reassuring. I find myself unable to open myself despite wanting to. The man shushes me for a reason I do not understand. Strong arms some around my back and behind my legs and the ground vanishes from beneath me. I feel for the first time that my cheeks are tear-stained. My face feels tight and uncomfortable. I feel incredibly wrong in my own skin.  
  
The man carries me a fair distance. The lights dim, as though we were in a desert and suddenly crawled into a cave. I can't quite understand why that is. The smell of ink and parchment and musty linens hit me all at once and without warning. The searing pain in my arm and hand come as a shock. The scream that leaves my mouth feels dry, forced and not at all conscious. For a second I cannot even understand why I am scream. It's as though the pain I am feeling is not my own, but there can't possibly be any other explanation. I shiver and stutter and bit back sobs as best I can. The man shushes me and speaks soothing word in Italian. I feel I understand the words for a second, but their meaning is lost as quickly as they appear.  
  
I want to scream at the man for speaking down to me. I feel like a child. I realize now that this may be the case. My body feels smaller. My feet and hands feel closer to me than they should. I whimper: it is the only sound I can make to convey what I am feeling. Pain and confusion. Where am I?  
  
I keep my eyes screwed shut. Thought the lights are dim here, it is still to bright for me to see quite yet. The smell of ink and old books vanishes and is replaced by a musk that reminds me of fires and forests. Incense must be burning somewhere. I can feel its smoke stinging my eyes. The man lays me down on what is either a very plump couch of a comfortable bed. He covers me with sheets and places another pillow beneath my head. He whispers something above me and brushes the hair out of my face.  
  
" _Siete sicuro_ ," he says. " _Potete dormire_." Though I can understand that he wants me to rest for the night—is it even night at all?—I can't recall what the words mean seconds after he's uttered them.

* * *

Morning light streams through the curtained glass doors of my room. Gold light floods the room. The dust in the air lights up like glitter in suspended motion. It is beautiful. My arm aches, my head pounds relentlessly behind my eyelids. I turn to the alarm clock. It's already late in the morning. Late enough for the winter sun to have risen, but early enough for noon to be a comfortable moment away. Desmond has returned to the chair by my bed. There is a UV drip next to me, its needle stuck in the blue-black crook of my elbow. My head feels like cotton. My thoughts tread through incoherent sludge. I try to make sense of my dream. Was it a dream at all? I can remember Lucy and Rebecca arguing about some bleeding effect. Is that what's happening to me?  
  
I sit up slowly as to now wake Desmond, but his eyes snap open regardless. He stares at me for a moment and I hold his gaze.  
  
"I'm not okay, am I?," I ask, but my throat feels hoarse with disuse and only half the words are audible.  
  
Desmond shakes his head. He looks weary. "No, not really," he answers, and I appreciate his honesty. The only other person, I think, would've been so earnest would have been Shaun. I glance around my room for a moment. The sudden feeling that I am not in my room overcomes me. It's like a rush that completely engulfs me and makes me unable to operate properly. My blood feels like ice and fire simultaneously and the feeling drives me mad. I have been scratching at my arms without noticing: Desmond grabs my wrists and tells me to calm down. He releases me, lets my hands fall in my lap.  
  
My arms are red and sore and sensitive. The skin on my forearms is red and looks raw. It feels raw. It feels like my entire body is raw. I don't know what I look like or what I say but Desmond reacts to it like a bolt of lightning struck him. I know what it happening to me. I know it is happening but it terrifies me nonetheless. I can feel myself slipping out of my own body and into someone else's.  
  
There is a flurry of dresses and gowns and elaborate curtains and masks. There are women and men and children and lights and too many smells than I can remember. And there are screams, cries of an assassin, cries of too many unpleasant things. I am hidden, have been so for hours, and shall remain as such.  
  
And just as suddenly I am returned to my body. Desmond looms over me. His fingers dig painfully into my shoulders. It does not keep me in my skin long. Before I can comprehend what is happening to me, I am thrown into splintered wood and dangling ropes and fires starting all around me. I am older than I should be, well into my twenties and just brushing my third decade on this earth. Arrows have severed the rope from which I should have dangled, limp and gasping for breath and dead. More have set fire to the fallows I had been on moments before. Everything is falling apart. Smoke and dust seem to poison my lungs as I am pulled from the wreckage. Guards are everywhere. My brothers and sisters in arm are fighting for their lives and for mine. My leg feels numb, I cannot—  
  
A hand slaps me across the cheek. The sting of it reaches far beyond that of physical pain. The fear it instills in me is deadly. It feels like a poison rushing through my veins. Desmond begs me to calm down, to come down, to get a hold of myself. I can't understand how he want me to get a hold of myself. I'm several people. Which one of me does he want me to be? When does he want me to be? I can't see much despite the daylight streaming through the thin curtains. I cling to Desmond and choke on sobs. Crying is doing nothing to relieve anything at all but I can't hold it in. I don't know which one of me is crying. I don't know who I'm holding onto. Desmond? The strange man who brought me to safety?  
  
It feels like hours before I fall asleep. I am blessed with a dreamless slumber.  
  
When I wake up next it is well into the afternoon. It is late enough for most people to mistake the time of day for evening. The sun has begun to set, its rays disappearing behind distant treelines. My room is empty: I feel it before I can open my eyes. There is no one at my bedside, there is no one outside the door waiting to come it and there is no one at the glass doors. I do not feel alone in my room. But perhaps this is because I do not feel alone in my skin. I feel the weight of several lives on my shoulders, in my mind. The discomfort is unimaginable.  
  
For some reason, my mind drifts to Desmond. I remind myself of the night he spirited me away from my almost death. When I asked him why it had to be me, he said it was because I was the only one who could handle it. The only person whose empathy could save them. My empathy did nothing for me at all. It made everything worse. I quietly resent him for a moment for lying to me. But then I found myself wondering if he knew he'd been lying at all. Maybe he didn't. Or maybe Desmond was only repeating what he'd been told.  
  
What he'd been told. The thought makes me shudder. I just now remember that Desmond is not acting alone. Lucy, Rebecca and Shaun aside, all the other men and women I've seen come and go out of the hideout aside, I only now remember that there is someone higher above them. There is someone more knowledgeable than them somewhere in the world. There is a higher calling somewhere that drives them. Is there a calling driving me? And I damned to relive my ancestors' lives and deaths every day until my mind is no longer my own? Is my mind already too far gone?  
  
A knock at the door tears me from my thoughts. It is like waking up again. It is a painful process. It takes me a few moments before I can catch up to what Lucy is telling me.  
  
"…in the Animus too long anymore, and we all think it's best if we work on the memories you'd already gained. You couldn't see the map last time, anyhow, and Rebecca thinks it might be too dangerous to send you back there, but at least now we know Sofia-Mari is the one we're after. Her memories are the ones we need." Lucy rambles on and I only nod to show I am listening. It comes as no surprise that everyone deems it too risky for me to enter the Animus again. I will not protest, though now I feel useless. My mind is breaking, slowly but surely. How dependable can I be when my mental state is compromised? What will happen to me once I've expired? Have I already overstayed by welcome? What will happen to me now? What has happened to my family?  
  
I don't ask Lucy where my parents and brother are. I don't ask what they will have me do. She steers me to the kitchen to help Shaun with dinner. He welcomes me with a nod and nothing more. Lucy promises to come back in a little while to check up on me. Shaun doesn't do much talking. The only words we exchange are polite instructions and demands. (Pass the spoon, please. Can you reach the salt? Don't stir too fast.) I try to keep my mind on the task at hand as much as I can. Shaun busies himself with eggs to make an omelette and I concentrate on seasoning what I assume is tofu. I find that when I have something to occupy myself with, I do not always see the blue ghost-like images that seem to appear and disappear at random intervals.  
  
I have just finished putting the first few slices of tofu in a pan when Desmond walks into the kitchen. He and Shaun banter—as they always seem to—before Desmond motions to the door with his head. We walk down the hallways before he stops, suddenly, sitting down on a step. He invites me to do the same. I sit down one step below him.  
  
"You haven't drawn anything in a while," he states, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward. Desmond stares at me intently in a way that unnerves me. It bothers me that he has noticed my lack of creative activity. Is everyone in the hideout monitored like I am? Am I special because of my empathy?  
  
I worry my bottom lip while I think of a reply. I know he is expecting one. "I haven't really felt inspired in a while," I say, toying with my nails. "And I can't really think of anything but my ancestors, like Anneliese and Sofia-Mari. And the only times I think of them I relive their deaths. I don't think anyone needs to see the gory details of those."  
  
Desmond nods gravely and turns his head to stare head. His eyes seem to lose focus. I have the strange impression that he resembles much what I look like when I begin to lose myself to the Animus, or when I begin to see things that don't quite exist in this day and age. "They died pretty bad ways, didn't they," Desmond asks, though the inflections confuse me, and I can't quite figure if it's a question or a statement he needs confirmation on. "Your ancestors, I mean."  
  
I nod quietly. "Anneliese was hung for treason, theft and bedding another woman. They removed her hands and her right eye before hanging her, but at a few days' interval," I explain. I bite my tongue and screw my eyes shut. I try to keep my breathing slow and steady. Thinking of Anne's death is especially painful to me. The pain she had been forced to endure is something I cannot fathom despite having been through several painful surgeries. Anneliese did not have the luxury of anaesthetic or proper physicians. She was roughly patched up and given the right to live up to her execution.  
  
It was a slow, painful, horrible death. Anne's hanging at the gallows was mercy. She would have died of infection otherwise. She had probably already been dying of several other diseases and wouldn't have lived to see several other years.  
  
Desmond nudges my shoulder with his knee. It jostles me enough to pull me out of my thoughts. I look up at him. "You okay?," he asks, furrowing his brows. I startle myself thinking that the wrinkle on his forehead makes him cute, in a strange kind of way.  
  
I shake my head. I am most certainly not okay. Desmond sighs and lowers himself to the step I am on.  
  
"You know, back in the fourteen hundreds, I had an ancestor. You might've heard his name in one of your memories. Ezio Auditore. He was a pretty badass mother. So, when he was still a kid…"  
  
Desmond goes on talking about Ezio, this man whose name I've indeed heard several times before. It is not a bedtime story, it is not there to impress me or to boast Ezio's exploits. Desmond merely recounts events because he knows it will distract me. I let my head fall against his shoulder. He ends a few sentences with questions, and I nod to show I am still awake. Sometime during his story his arm drapes itself around my shoulders. I shiver at the warmth.  
  
We stay in the stairs for longer than I cared to notice. While Desmond speaks, my ancestors remain dead and their memories remain their own.


	11. εξέλιξη

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exélixi, the process by which one thing becomes a higher, elevated version of itself. Going from the stages of childhood into adulthood, whilst amassing a sea of knowledge. What this can do to the mind, when done too young, or too suddenly, may sometimes counteract the very evolution one seeks to achieve in themselves.

Desmond goes on about Ezio. His greatest accomplishments, his defeats. The amusing way he got his scar, the one that Desmond's face perfectly reflects. His voice soothes and lulls me into safety. It, and the sound of my own breathing, are the only things in my head. The flickering blue-white figures stay away. I get the impression Desmond is aware that I am mostly unconscious, but he does not stop speaking.

All the same, the transition comes suddenly, though it takes me a while to realize it.

It dawned on me, after what had probably been a few minutes, that I couldn't hear Desmond anymore. No more low, muffled chuckles and no more snide remarks. My eyes are closed, and I keep them that way. Opening them would confirm that my mind has, once again, wandered very far away.  
What confirms my suspicions is the smell of incense thick in the air. There are several other smells, but I can't seem to identify them. I feel like I know them, but the words get lost somewhere between here and there.

The room I'm in is quiet. There are still many pillows beneath me, and my head. Another blanket seems to had been added since last time. Though now, my skin feels... better. Less bruised, but still sore. I flex my toes, my fingers, my hands. My forearms hurt incredibly. I grunt when I try to lift of my arms from my torso. The muscles hurt far to much, still, for me to be able to move comfortably.  
I take a few, painful, deep breaths and open my eyes. The room itself is dimly lit. I have two distinct, conflicting thoughts: this room is older than the Constitution, but was built only a few years ago. The dichotomy causes a headache to bloom in my head. This worsens when I realize how viscerally hungry I am. My stomach growls in discontent.

There is a table in the middle of the room, six or seven feet to my right. Whatever I am laying on (bed, couch, mountain of cushions) has been pushed against the far left corner of the room. The door is directly diagonal to me. The floors are a dark wood, the walls seem orange in the glow of multiple candles (no way to tell what they look like without) and the ceiling is, as far as I can tell, pitch black. It's an interesting room. Warm, comfortable, if slightly unsettling.  
My stomach growls again, louder. I do my best to sit myself up in my nest. Properly taking in my surroundings, I realize it's more like a lounge chaise than a bed or couch proper. Nevertheless, as comfortable or plush as it may be, it does not prevent my abdomen and back to shake in pain. It feels like an eternity, but eventually I manage to firmly plant my feet onto the floor. I sit on the edge of the would-be chaise and wait for several minutes for the pain in my sides, back and stomach to subside.

Walking towards the table is a nightmare.

It's a small, square thing about four feet across. On it are grapes, green and red, a loaf of bread half sliced, and a jug of water with a glass to pour it in. Bracing myself against the table, I let a hand hover over the loaf. Still warm; someone was here not too long ago. Most likely the same person who found it fit to drape another blanket over me.

I spend a moment simply staring at the door. I have no idea what wait for me behind it. Friend? Foe? So far, they've kept me alive and somewhat hidden away. I wouldn't dare spit on the hospitality of my unknown Samaritan. Once I'm done inspecting what looks to be a rather thick wooden door, I take the empty glass. Rather than pouring the water into it from the jug, which my arms certainly wouldn't be able to handle, I dunk the glass into the jug and take what water I can from it. My first sip is tentative, small. I quickly gulp down the water, finding my throat parched and sore.  
After two glasses of water, I slowly begin eating through one of the bread slices. It's soft and warm and easy to chew and swallow. I don't chance the grapes; if the skin got caught in my throat, I'd be extremely loathe to have to lose what little food and drink I've been able to have.

As I finish my fourth glass of water (having finally mustered enough strength and resistance to pour it from the jug) is when someone enters the room. The first thing I notice is how casually he is dressed. Only a loose under-shirt and trousers. Boots halfway laced. Everything looks fairly well made. Not expensive, but comfortable. Whoever this man is seems to be doing well.  
The second thing I notice, and the third and fourth, are the scars. They cover most of his hands and crawl up what little of his forearms I can see. His face looks like it was spared whatever his hands had been through. His left brow, however, is divided in three parts by two scars there.

I leave my hands planted on the smooth wood of the table. Clueless as I am, I can still tell that this man knows his way around a blade. Worse, perhaps.

He enters the room quietly and slowly. Every movement is deliberately slowed and exaggerated. It does not take me very long to realize he is doing this strictly for my benefit. My stare and evaluation do not seem to bother him. Instead, he levels my gaze with his own. Once the latch of the door catches, closing behind him, the man slowly raises his hands next to his shoulders.

"It's good to see you've an appetite, my friend," he says jovially, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. This way, he reminds me strangely of my elder brother.

"How-" I sputter a little bit, throat trying, uncomfortably, to mold itself around words. I haven't spoken in some time, then. "How long have I been here?"

He's wary of me. The look in his eyes and the unwavering stare, the complete unwillingness to turn his back to me for a second. The knowledge makes me frown. The man sighs and lets his hands fall by his side. He approaches the tablet just as slowly as he entered the room.

"My name is Vittorio, thank you for asking," he says, and I force myself not to feel embarrassment. "You've been here for four days. Unconscious until now. We don't count the times when you woke up in a fit and punched the good doctor." He stops to stand in front of the table, opposite me. He crosses his arms and though I think the goal is to look disappointed, it feels like he's oddly... proud.

At this, however, I do sheepishly look down. "I apologize," I offer, lightly tapping my fingers on the table. "My name is Sofia-Mari. Thank you for your help, _Signore_. I would appreciate if you could send my apologies to your doctor."

"No need, no need!," Vittorio replies, just as cheerfully. He waves a hand in dismissal. "The _Dottore_ regularly deals with far worse! I'm sure he was happy to help a fresh young face like yours." Now that I can see him more clearly, Vittorio's face unnerves me. Scars aside, there is little there that betrays his age. He could be one and twenty years old, just as easily as he could be my father's age. He snorts, pleased, perhaps with my thorough investigation of his features, and finally turns his back to me.

This is when I notice that the table was left suspiciously void of any cutlery.

"There is, however, a serious matter to discus, _Principina_ ," Vittorio says, and the tone of his voice makes the back of my neck crawl. He joins his hands behind his back. A leather cuff flashes just a little bit of its brown hide from underneath his shirt. I do not have the time to properly look at it before Vittorio turns to face me again. The somber set of his face makes me incredibly apprehensive.

"You've nowhere to go, see, and we're reluctant to let you go now that you've seen several of our faces. Ah ah! I know, you most likely don't remember, but that isn't really the point." He pauses for emphasis. "The point is, we've spent quite a few resources to help you. How do you intend to repay that debt?"


	12. δισταγμός

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hesitation rises from two conflicting desires. Should I let myself be swayed by my idealism and believe the dreams I am being told? Or should I keep to myself and continue on this arduous road? Weighing the odds is never a task lightly undertaken.

His question worries me. Frightens me. I know what happens in these situations. I've seen the bruises on other girls. I've heard the sobbed stories of young mothers, abandoned. The man himself seems pleasant enough. I, now, cannot see any malice on his face, in his body. Nothing to suggest he would use me the ways that I imagine. 

I can feel myself coil up like a snake. Desperate, vicious, and willing to attack. My eyes begin searching the room for something to use as a weapon. Anything. There: a silk ribbon on the bed. In front of me: a glass goblet, fragile. Breakable, its pieces sharp and unforgiving. But a heaviness settles itself in my limbs, so I opt to slowly inch back towards the bed of comfortable pillows and linens. 

"I have no money," I start, weaker than I intend. The bravado in my voice has, ironically, left me now that I am fed and watered. "No marketable skills. My mother taught me to forage, to sew, but you clearly don't need that." I make a show of looking the man over to demonstrate my point. It is not a seamstress they need, nor a cook or a farmer. As I gingerly sit on the cushions, I wrap my hand around the ribbon. Only now does its placement seem odd to me. There are no curtains to tie, and this certainly was not in my hair. It is a deep purple, shimmering crimson under the light. 

"I'm twelve. I don't have anything you could possibly want," I add, looking down at my feet. I fidget with the ribbon, wrapping it around my fist. It isn't too thin that it would break should I have to use it. 

"Ah, and that is where you are wrong, _Principina_ -"

"Please don't call me that." The interruption catches us both off guard. The term, however, stings too much to let it pass twice without a word. 

The man frowns, but his smirk stays. "Well then, Sofia, I apologize. I meant no slight in the term. Please, relax a little. Your hand will become stiff if you grip that silk any tighter."

This flusters me. I should have expected him to know, to see. I should have...

"Yes, that," Vittorio says, pointing at me. Though I cannot tell, precisely, what he points at. "That look. The one that says, "he saw it", the one that plans. That is what we want.  
"You put up a very good fight against the guards in the market. We saw it, all of it. Not to worry! We aren't here to arrest you or sell you to slavers. We're here to cultivate that fire in you, Sofia-Mari. Many street urchins would have given up, or gotten themselves killed. But you, you held your own. Weakly, but you did. And we took you away from them because you, _Passerotta_ , would be wasted anywhere else."

The name "little sparrow" confuses me. It must show, as Vittorio laughs. Loudly and heartily. 

"You have no family to speak of, do you, _Passerotta_?" I nod, slowly. I am the middle child of five, two younger sisters, an elder sister and the eldest brother. My mother does what she can, but with such a large family, and in the state I am in indicates just how well off of a family we are. 

Vittorio frowns. With this, he looks truly concerned and upset. "I see. Very well. Rest for now, hatchling. In the morning, we will see how well you can fly."

Vittorio leaves with this, after giving a quail glance at the small square table. I can only hope for the promise of food, but as the heavy door clicks shut, I let the ribbon fall free from my hand. He was right; it is sore and stiff from where I held the ribbon too tightly. Without anything to busy myself with, fatigue quickly settles back it. My arms and ribs remind me how sore they are. It isn't much of a challenge. I slowly let myself fall back into the nest of pillows, and drift back into darkness. 

It feels almost instant, after I lay my head down, when someone shakes me. The jolt of motion sends a fresh wave of nausea through me, though I find my stomachs disturbingly empty. Had I not just eaten? I remember a mother telling me to take deep breaths when I feel nauseated. Who was I then? Which mother told me to do that? As I slowly inhale-two-three-four, hold-two, exhale-two-three-four, I try to forget. Everything, as a whole. All I need to do, right now, whenever now happens to be, is breathe. 

"Jordan, are you with me?"

The voice is deep and masculine and, oddly, familiar. The words are contorted and strange, but somehow I've heard them spoken before. I nod, in time with my breathing, but do not speak. The nausea fades away, a little bit. At least my mouth has stopped producing too much saliva. I feel a little more... anchored in my skin. Whosever it may be. Jordan? That sounds... right. Not horribly wrong, in any case. 

"Jordan, I need you to actu-" I cut him off with a hand. After a few more cycles of breathing, I feel better. Not as sick and reeling. I do my best to ignore the frustrated huffs above me. Next to me? I chance opening my eyes. At least the world stays where it should. Nothing suddenly tilts one way or the other. Small as it is, it feels like some measure of progress. 

" _Sto bene_ ," I say to the ceiling. He, Desmond?, hovers at my side. I admit I am not entirely certain what I am laying on. When I turn to look at Desmond, he looks back at me quizzically. " _Che cosa_?"

"Do you understand what I'm saying right now?," he asks, leaning in and resting his forearms on he bed. Ah, so I'm on a bed. Feels almost clinical. 

" _Lo voglio_. Why?"

"You're speaking in Italian, Jordan."

Of course I am. I am Italian. 

Ah. 

"S-sorry. I am... Jordan, now. How... old?" My English sounds broken to my own ears. But the Italian feels like it sounds as English as what Desmond says. The words are there, swimming in my head. It feels much like a migraine. I know the words, but somewhere between my mind and mouth, they become irretrievably lost. 

"Seventeen. You're seventeen," he answers. I think for a second that his instinctive knowing of whose age I asked for should bother me. I dismiss it; my mind can't hold too many thought right now. "How many fingers am I holding up?" He holds his hand up, fingers splayed. Inexplicably, I tap my hand to his. It makes for a rather terrible high five. I leave my hand there, regardless. The warmth and solidity of his hand is a small comfort in a murky swamp of confusion.

"Ci... Fi-five. How old are you?" Desmond's face shifts, barely. Something unsettles him. It's difficult to tell if my shameless candour or hand are to blame. He does not move away, however. 

"Twenty five. I was born in March," he answers honestly. His gaze begins to unnerve me. I have a feeling he is simply returning my own. No wonder he looked uncomfortable, even for just a second. "What's your birthday?"

I frown. I have three different birthdays in mind and only two have concrete dates. The third, the oldest, is vague and nebulous. The spring, maybe. Not the one I'm asked for, though. I try to recall the latest one, the closest. 

"October. Twenty... third. That sounds right." Or maybe it was twenty eight. The numbers feel similar enough. It also does not feel like it matters. 

Desmond nods; it seems like I am slowly returning to myself then. To this me. In 2012, or... Maybe 2013, by now. Did we pass Christmas yet? The compound itself is sparsely furnished. It would probably be impossible to tell if it had been decorated for a holiday. If it ever was. 

"What day is it?" I pull a pillow from beneath my head to cover my face. The light is aggressively bright. Or, more likely, I am far too sensitive to it. The room I was in before was darker. I can still smell incense in the air. Whether that is a remnant of my dream or not isn't something I want to dwell on for too long. 

"It's Christmas Eve, Jordan," Desmond replies, and takes his hand back to rest in his lap. The words come out slowly and deliberately. He knows this will upset me, and it does. Not as much as I had anticipated, but the burn of not having my family with me at Christmas time is not one I am used to.

I only now notice that the hallway beyond my room is lit with colourful, blinking lights. Desmond follows my gaze and chuckles. He momentarily covers his face with his hand. I do my best not to think of how oddly charming his laughter is. 

"Yeah, uh, Rebecca thought it'd help you if we decorated the place a little," he explains, carefully gauging my reaction. It offers some kind of reassurance, to be monitored like that. With Lucy, and even Shaun, to a certain degree, the observations feel cold and clinical. It makes me feel like a lab rat, or a prisoner of war. With them, every stay in the Animus feels like an interrogation. But with Desmond...

"It does. Help, I mean," I say hurriedly, trying to bury my embarrassment in other thoughts. "I'm not used to spending the holidays away from home, but it feels wrong lamenting my case with you guys around."

We sit around in silence, companionable for the most part, until it becomes stifling. Desmond clears his throat before moving to stand. I take a second to look at the clock next to my bed; it is well past midnight, but far too early for it to be considered morning yet. As Desmond moves to leave, I grab onto his sleeve. Falling asleep, in this moment, terrifies me. I have no desire to lose myself again. 

"Can you stay a little bit longer?," I ask, shying away from Desmond's stare. I have seen that one before. Whenever what they call the bleeding effect kicks in. It is almost plain to see that Desmond and the others have witnessed first hand what it can do to a mind. I didn't much understand it at first, but I eventually remembered what it reminded me of. 

I explain to Desmond that I have a friend who can Astral travel. Not in the traditional sense where you visit real places with your "spirit". But where you visit, in your dreams, places that are on a different plane. Eventually that friend began to suffer from what she calls the Bleeding Book syndrome. She would see static on televisions that were off, see images that couldn't exist in the present. The way she explained it, she was acting as a conduit to that other plane. What happened there would leak into her conscious mind and would permeate the world around her. Desmond nods as I explain. His solemn expression reassures me. Though, with the Animus, I should have expected such an open mind.

"So you think this is something like that?," he asks, rubbing a hand over his mouth and sits back down on the foot of my bed. I nod, not wanting to look at him. It's embarrassing, to admit I believe in these things. "Did she tell you how she made it stop?"

"Grounding and meditating. But I don't think..." I trail off. Grounding and meditation don't sound like they would help me at all. I already know who I am. "Though maybe keeping something that keeps me in the here and now... But I wouldn't even know what kind of thing that would be."

The silence is heavy. This feels like it should be a problem that is easily solved. Several minutes pass. Neither of us can come up with anything at all. The conclusion is this: if a needle in my arm cannot keep me tethered to this reality, doubtful anything else could.

"I guess not going back in the Animus is out of the question now, right?," I ask jokingly. My chuckle comes out empty.

"I'm sorry Jordan," Desmond eventually says. He hangs his head. His desolation distresses me. Though, I suppose, the root of that may be the problem.

"Actually," I start again. I am absolutely uncertain of my own thoughts. But right now, any guess, wild or not, is as good as any. "If the problem is that I'm letting my empathy get in the way of literally everything, maybe... maybe if I was on some kind of anti-psychotic?"

Desmond raises his head and frowns at me. Apparently, he is not too fond of the idea of prescription drugs. Or maybe the counterfeiting of them.

"I hate to say it but that might not be a really fucking terrible idea," he says. He sounds as surprised as I feel. "There's gotta be something about intercepting neuro-receptors or some shit like that that'd actually help. I'll go have Lucy look into that," he says. He motions to leave again but stops himself at the door. He turns and looks at me with a look of uncertainty that both feels strikingly familiar and foreign all the same.

 

I do my best to ignore the familiarity of it.

 

"I'm fine, Desmond. I'm probably not gonna lose it again." I do my best impression of a smile. Desmond laughs. The sound mollifies something in me.

 

"Yeah, I'll believe that when your face actually cooperates." He leaves and closes the door behind him nonetheless.

 

For the first time in what feels like far too long, when I fall asleep, the visions are purely mine. Ice caves and frightful monsters.

 

No ancestors in sight.


	13. αργία

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of respite, amid chaos and confusion. They say never to look a gift horse in the mouth, though maybe doing so would have avoided destruction.

When I wake up it is with this odd innate knowledge that it is Christmas. Just a solemn thought of, "it's December 25th today". It feels odd to get up and go through the motions of this day without my family.

I stare at my alarm clock for several minutes before actually getting out of bed. The time goes from 10:07 to 10:08 to 10:09 before I can make myself move. Despite any logical argument, it feels like in this moment, just looking at the green LED numbers, I might make time stop. Staying in this moment would be a relief, if only for a few hours. No Animus, no dead-alive ancestors, no bleeding effect. Just me, now, here. Wherever "here" happens to be.

Just as I sit on the edge of my bed, there's a knock on the door. It bursts open before I can answer.

Rebecca rushes in with several boxes in her hand. Behind her, hanging in the doorway, are Desmond and Shaun. The former with hands in his pockets looking rather pleased with himself. The latter looking disgruntled and nursing a mug of what I assume is coffee. I don't see Lucy anywhere, though oddly, this does not bother me.

"Merry Christmas short stop!," Rebecca exclaims, a little too loudly. I mask my flinch with laughter. Her excitement is already contagious.

"Merry Christmas!," I reply, trying to squeeze as much joy and enthusiasm into my voice as she had. "What's with the FedEx delivery?" I motion at the boxes in her hand. I did not know it was possible for Rebecca to be happier than she is around the Animus. Her face lights up.

"We got you stuff! They're like, nothing huge or anything, but Des thought it would make you feel better! And help with that whole, uh. You know," she says, vaguely gesturing at my head.

"Rebecca!," Desmond calls harshly from the doorway. But I cannot help but laugh. Though none of them can be much older than Desmond, it feels as though no one knows what to do about me because of how young I am.

"It's fine! Really, hey, Rebecca. Thank you." I let my hand rest on her forearm for a second. A comforting gesture. I try my best to dismiss the shock of emotions that surge in through the contact: anxiety, excitement, fear, anticipation, disappointment and a hint of...

"So, what's in the absolutely-not-UPS boxes?," I ask, to cast my thoughts somewhere else. I grab the largest box from the top of the small tower on my bed.

"That's from me!," Rebecca announces proudly and puffs out her chest. After battling with the tape covering every inch of the box itself, I find headphones inside. Beautiful, large, noise-cancelling headphones. "I thought y'know, if there's something you like to listen to, you could probably keep that in the Animus. Maybe the tunes would keep you grounded or something."

I look at Desmond in the doorway. He shrugs his shoulder non-committally. I am entirely uncertain whether or not the idea came from him, in such a short amount of time. That, or Rebecca is stunningly brighter than I bothered to give her credit for. She did manage to recreate the animus form what I assume are scraps, after all.

The second box, the smallest one, is from Shaun. Inside it are two Chinese medicine balls. As far as I can tell, their appearance and weight do not give any indication that they are made of metal.

"They're Baoding balls," Shaun offers, still nursing his probably-coffee. "I'm assuming you know how to use them. You youths know these things."

Desmond scoffs but I appreciate the humour.

"What are they made of, though?," I ask, rolling them, or at least attempting to, in my hand. "They're too heavy and dark to be stainless steel."

"Hematite," Shaun answers shortly.

"It's... A good stone for grounding," Desmond supplies, but the look he gives Shaun is mostly one of confusion and inquisition than annoyance. I file the thought away for later reflection.

Onto the third box.   
Slightly bigger than Shaun's, this one has a card with Lucy's swirling handwriting.

_Jordan,_

_Hopefully this will help you make the best of a fucking shitty situation._

I laugh. Genuinely and heartily, for several minutes. Maybe t is the sleep deprivation, the bleed effect or some form of cabin fever, but the small folded note is endlessly hilarious to me. Not because of the irony of it, of my kidnappers helping me to feel less kidnapped. But just the idea of Lucy swearing and making it seem like we've bonded.

Maybe we have. In our quiet stoicism, maybe we have come to a silent, mutual understanding.

Inside the box is what, at first glance, looks like a pile of stones. But as I try to pluck one out, I find that they are all connected. I quickly recognize the design; malas are often used by Buddhists as either prayer beads or, in other cases, just as a means of coping with anxiety.

I carefully pull the strung beads (and accompanying tassel) out of their box and into my lap. Greens and whites and blacks, all strung together. Something near one hundred beads, with knots in the cord after each and every one. Whether Lucy made it herself or not is irrelevant. The thought and item are so overwhelmingly kind that the silence feels odd and thick compared to my burst of laughter.

I clear my throat and reach for the last box. Lucy's voice booms from somewhere outside my room, and while Rebecca complains every step of the way, Shaun politely herds her away.

The box in my hand is only slightly smaller than the one that contained the headphones. I cannot even take a wild guess as to what it is; headphones, mala, and Baoding balls are all wonderful for grounding. Short of a ten pound box of crystals, which I doubt Desmond would have bothered with, I cannot fathom what lay wrapped in cardboard in front of me.

"If you don't want me to see your reaction...," Desmond starts, pointing at the hallway behind him. I shake my head. My hesitation isn't from reluctance or anxiety. I am lot scared of what he has gotten for me. Just... Apprehensive.

There is no tape on Desmond's box. It is not overly heavy either. Heavier than the headphones to be sure, but not too much so. I gently pry the box's tabs out of its sides and pull open the top.

Of course, wrapped in tissue paper. I carefully pull those apart. Inside, a case of markers. Copics, and more of them than I can count at first glance.

But there, carefully tucked again the pack of markers, something metalline. I reach for it slowly, making sure there are so sharp edges to cut myself on. (Not that Desmond would have been that careless, but, safety first.)

It is a switchblade. No two ways about it. It is a hand crafted switchblade. And it looks approximately twenty times my age. I turn it over in my hands several times, wordlessly. There, a mother of pearl insert. There, some other form of insert. And the handle; varnished and cared-for dark wood. Obvious marks of wear in areas where a knowledgeable hand would have gripped it many, many times.

I press a small steel ball near the top which I, correctly, assume is a button. The blade flips out smoothly and with hardly a sound.

Finally, I look up at Desmond. His arms are still crossed over his chest, and he is still leaning against the door frame. But he looks very proud of himself. I try to thank him, or to express some form of gratitude, but nothing leaves my mouth. My words get caught and tangled in my throat and rest on my tongue to die.

"It belonged to an assassin in the 1700s. As far as we know her descendant's not around to stake a claim on it, so I figured..." He shrugs, ending his explanation without having effectively explained much. But it is enough.

I fold the blade back into its handle. A soft click indicates that it is properly latched in, and I gently let it down by the alarm clock by my bed.

Desmond makes an excuse about breakfast and walks away. The solitude is surprisingly welcomed. Though as I move the boxes off my bed, something falls onto the floor to my right. It is a fourth and absolutely minuscule box, but what strikes me first is the colour of the ribbon that keeps it shut.

It is purple, and gleams a deep crimson read in certain light. It isn't hard to remember where and when exactly I have seen this silk before.

I tug on one of the bow's loose ends and unravel it. I do my best to forget it as I take the lid off the small box. What it contains baffles me as it is such a minute detail that even I had forgotten about it.

It is a ring, nestled in black crushed velvet. The gold glimmers in the light; it has been polished to an impeccable shine. Even the engraving on it is there.

 _Passerotta_.

It feels as though this should be a prank. As though someone has perfectly executed this particularly for me. For... what, exactly? What does this ring mean to me? Jordan Powell was never known as Passerotta, never killed anyone and I certainly have never had someone care enough to offer me a gold ring.

I catch myself twisting the ring around my finger. I cannot pinpoint when it went from the box to my hand. I roughly remove the ring from my finger and throw it back into its box. The conflicting feelings whirling in my head range from elation to disgust. It is logically clear which belong to whom, but consciously putting that knowledge into practice is difficult.

I get up, close the door and change into something somewhat appropriate. Jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie. Comfortable Christmas morning wear. I grab the switch knife from the bedside table. Before leaving my room, however, I knock the ring box onto the floor and kick it under the bed.

Where old things belong. 


	14. τρέλα

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times when, if the mind is clouded, folly can be misconstrued as genius. By the time lucidity returns, it is often far too late; the pain has already settled into the bones.

Christmas morning comes and passes in the blink of an eye. Lucy and Desmond make a show of breakfast. No animus for me. Though Shaun and Rebecca are not so lucky. While Desmond is out doing... whatever it is he does when he is not around, Lucy works them to the bone. Though I cannot completely ignore the pangs of guilt, I decide to make constructive use of my time.  
  
There is a wide space that is mainly used for storage. There are crates and palettes everywhere. It makes for the perfect trial run.  
  
Here and there, Desmond has implied that he has learned many skills from his time in the Animus as Ezio. Maybe, if I am lucky, I may be able to make the best of these unwanted memories and focus them to something more productive.  
  
I do not doubt for a moment that Lucy is keeping an eye on me. But, for now, I busy myself with free running. I remember little of Anneliese's life, but Sofia-Mari's training trickles into my mind like sand in an hourglass. Already when she was twelve she had learned enough to not get herself caught (too often). Maybe, if I am lucky, I can attempt to reproduce her methods.  
  
I do not waste time. I launch myself at the first tower of crates I see. They come up about a foot above me. I give myself a running start and, about two feet in front of the crates and aim to grab the ledge.  
  
This is a terrible idea.  
  
The crates are all wood. And though my grip is originally excellent, the wood splinters under my hand and embeds itself into my skin. I let out a sharp cry and let myself fall to the ground, on my back. I hold my hands close to my chest. They barely bleed, but some of the wooden shards there are much thicker than my fingernails. I do my best to calm and steady my breathing and set to the task of removing the splinters.  
  
It is long and arduous and painful. There are some thirty-odd pieces sticking out of my palms, my fingers. I do not count the minutes it takes until I am done. I hastily remove my sweater when I am done and wrap it around my left hand. At the very least, I can protect one.  
  
Then comes the matter of hunting something down that I can wrap my hands with. At first, I think of the Animus room. There is a small first aid kit there that would help.  
  
The embarrassment and my own pride urge me to find another way. I investigate the other unlocked doors on my way, few as they are. Eventually I loop back to the small storeroom. Surely there must be something here in case one of the crates falls onto someone.  
  
I wander deeper into the towers and columns of boxes and crates. Most are unmarked. Some bear a symbol that feels oddly familiar. And there, at the back, on one of the rare shelves, is a small white box. I take a moment to pray and hope to whatever will listen that it contains at least ointment. Anything will do.  
  
As I flip the front metal latch and open the metal case, it's contents are all I could hope for. And a little more. Maybe a little too much.  
  
There are several bottles of pills, gauze pads and wraps, ace bandages, and least three kinds of ointment, and syringes, full and clearly labeled with names and dates.  
  
They tempt me horribly. I have never been terribly good with anything chemical. I take the gauze, disinfecting wipes and ointment but leave the rest in their case. I close the latches and turn away. For today, the only things I need are disinfected hands.  
  
The task of taking out the remaining, smaller splinters is as long and painful as earlier. I stop several times to recompose myself. I begin to wish I had taken some kind of pain killer. When the thought occurs to me, I stand up and jog around the room a little. It releases enough tension that, when I lower my heart rate again, I can continue working.  
  
The bleeding is worse around my palm. The pain there, however, is still bearable. As I reach further out toward and into my fingers, the pain increases. Exponentially. The disinfectant does not just sting, it burns. I bite my lip and swear under my breath.  
  
The entire process takes an infinite amount of time. By the end, it is clear that I have injured myself, and quite badly. The gauze bandage spins around my hands and around each finger, as best I can manage. I wrap the gauze a little way up my wrist to make a solid wrap.  
  
The burn is intolerable.  
I go hunting for Rebecca.  
  
I find her, Shaun and Lucy in the Animus room. They seem to be grossly involved in a discussion I'd rather not hear. I make a show of my presence and they cease talking.  
  
"Rebecca, do you have any gloves? Preferably not fingerless," I ask in her direction. She looks confused but nods regardless.  
  
"Uh, yeah, sure, mine are on the desk over there. Just bring 'em back when you're done," she says, pointing at a desk pushed up against the wall to my right.  
  
They're thick gloves and perfect to protect against shredding wood. I quickly thank her with a nod. I am careful not to wave or show my hands; I keep them concealed in the long sleeves of my sweater.  
  
Back in the storeroom, I clap my hands together. They make a muffled sound, and the pain is atrocious. But the sooner I get used to it, the better. I am determined to see what I can learn from Sofia-Mari.  
  
Desmond finds me several hours later. I am worn and exhausted. My hands throb constantly. The pain, by now, is only an afterthought. The achievement that pain represents is by far more important.  
  
"Fucking Christ Jordan, what the hell've you been doing?"  
  
I lay on the floor looking up at the far ceiling. Desmond's face appears above me, scrutinizing our surroundings. My sweater lay discarded on a crate somewhere, and a syringe or two, empty, are by my side. Eventually, I did return to the small first aid kit. The pain in my hands was hindering my progress. My head feels cloudy but blissfully at peace.  
  
"Learned with Sofia-Mari," I explain shortly. I roll on myself to lay on my stomach. The concrete floor in cool against my face, and a welcome relief.  
  
"Yeah and from Mister Morphone too. Shit," Desmond swears under his breath. I am vaguely aware that he picks up the empty syringes. He probably disposes them somewhere safe. He only returns several minutes later.  
  
A water bottle is out in front of my turned face. "Drink up," Desmond says simply. I've upset him, I feel, but reach for the water regardless. I do not speak. My tongue feels heavy and my mind blurred. I do up slowly before uncapping the bottle, just as slowly. Sluggish, I think. I feel sluggish.  
  
I take several log swigs of the water. The water feels freezing as it glides down my throat. In comparison the rest of me feels burning hot. The bottle is half empty when I finally put it back down. I imagine I feel Desmond's disappointment on me like a thick jacket. Suffocating, awkward. Uncomfortable.  
  
"My hands hurt," I say weakly. It is as much of an explanation as I can manage. For once, my mind is quiet. The shadows still. "And now they kind of don't."  
  
Desmond crouches in front of me as I sit up. His hand cups my chin; she roughly noves my head this way and that. I am completely uncertain what he is looking for. He lifts one of my hands to inspect it. He frowns and removed the right hand glove. His frowns deepens. He begins unwrapping my hand without asking. He bunches the gauze in his hand as he unravels it.  
  
It is not what I would call pretty. My hand is filled with small puncture wounds, some bleeding, some not, none scabbed over yet. All of them red and puffy and angry looking. Most of my hand is swollen, my fingers tinged purple here and there.  
  
I stare at my own hand incredulously. I had no idea it would look like that. Desmond sighs and, with a hand at my elbow, pulls me to my feet.  
  
"Not Lucy," I whisper, almost pleadingly. "I don't wanna deal with that right now."  
  
Desmond chuckles. The grin does not reach his eyes. "She always knows, Jordan. She's been watching the whole time." Right. I knew that. When did I forget? "I'm not pissed at you," he adds, pulling me close to his side. He lets a hand rest low on my back and slowly guides me out of the storage room. Even through my shirt, despite my flushed skin, his hand feels like hot coals. "It's her I'm fucking pissed at. She could've at least tried to help."  
  
Desmond pointedly looks up at one corner of the room before exiting. There, tucked into the joint of the walls, is a small surveillance camera. I never even saw it. Though I can't say I really ever looked.

He guides me through the hallways, past several closed doors. Most are locked, I know, but some are mysteriously left ajar. We pass them by too quickly for me to see inside them, thought one does seem to emit an odd blue glow.  
  
Eventually we make it to what seems to be a spare room. Desmond closes the door behind him after I enter. It is sparsely furnished and completely devoid of any personal items. There is a bed, unmade, pressed against the wall on my left. It is the only sign of life having been in this room. There is a desk pressed to the wall opposite the door and to my right, a door to a private bathroom.  
  
"Sit," Desmond says shortly, motioning to the chair at the desk. Its lamp is the only thing providing any kind of light to the room.  
  
I vaguely recognize that this is probably Desmond's room. It is absolutely pointless now to keep the warmth out of my face; the morphone has made me far too complacent. I sit in the old computer chair. It clicks and squeaks as I drop my weight into it. I spin it round to face Desmond.  
  
"Patch me up, doc," I say quietly, trying at humour. My tone makes it fall short. I feel too dumb and guilty. I hold my hands out toward Desmond. He sighs and grabs my left, beginning to slowly unravel the bandages.  
  
Even he winces at the state of my hand. Some splinters had been been bigger than others. It makes my hand look like it has puncture wounds. By now, most have stopped bleeding. Desmond clicks his tongue and reaches past me to open the only desk drawer. He pulls out a small bottle of what I assume is peroxide. A small container of cotton balls, a roll of gauze bandage. His preparedness for this kind of situation makes me wonder. How many times has he injured himself? How many times has he treated someone else's injuries?  
  
I remain silent as he dabs my wounds with peroxide saturated cotton balls. I groan, once or twice. I otherwise bear the pain through gritted teeth. Not much else I can do; I've put myself in this situation.  
  
Desmond's hand cups my elbow. His thumb brushes over the small puncture on the inside. He sighed, lets me go. He is done with this hand, mixes onto the next.  
  
My arm feels like it has been lit on fire. It feels odd, pleasant at first. Until it no longer does.

The pain is searing, from my wrist upward. The pain feels like it scorches its way up my arm. Into y should. My neck. Into my eye. The pain makes me double over. I am barely aware of Desmond urgently asking me if I am alright.  
  
I am not myself at the moment.  
  
I remember Anneliese, I remember The Woman. I remember her soft skin beneath my hands, her heaving breast beneath my own—  
  
I remember the punishment for being with another woman. I remember the pain of being punished for "stealing". I remember paying for crimes I never committed. Just because they hated. Because they knew why I wore white. They knew what I did at night.  
  
I lost a hand. My hand! My sword hand. My loving hand. And my eye. For seeing what I ought not have. My eye! The pain, the blood, the noose and the—  
  
Sharp pain in my cheek. My neck twinges from the sudden shift. Desmond grabbing my shoulders. Whose? Whose shoulders? Which me is he talking to?  
  
There are just so many of me.  
  
Something stings my upper arm. It reminds me of those vaccines in elementary school. I remember the sting and the soreness of it. Remember the feel of my heart pounding in my chest. I screw my (our) eyes shut. I (we) take a deep breath, and open them again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I thought I had posted this. It's been done for a few months. I'm currently mostly through the chapter that follows this. I guess I'll try to keep writing. Tis the season and wot.


	15. κενό

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confusion may be too much for some people to bear. In those times, clearing the mind and bringing oneself back to basics may be comforting. A blank slate, as it were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter update because I have no idea how to continue this honestly but thank you if you're reading this!!

Everything swims. Moves. My vision is blurred, mostly from sleep. Slowly, I regain awareness of my limbs. Everything is sore. My hands are wrapped in bandages. Looking down, I realize that my legs are as well. My chest burns. It feels congested, like I've run for miles. I no longer lay in the bed of satins and still. This is rudimentary. A coarse linen sheet covers most of my body. 

I sit up in the cot set up for me. The memories come back to me on by one. Vittorio took me under his wings. Calls me _Passerotta_. After several months the nickname still feels odd. I do not feel like a bird at all. I do not feel like I have wings. I feel more grounded than I ever have. But all I have learned... it justifies it. Feels alright.

I flex my arms, rotate my shoulders. Everything feels stiff and bruised. I try to recall what happened as I look around. There are several more cots in this small room; five more, currently unoccupied. There are two other boys who sleep in this room. We are its sole three occupants. The boys do my bother me. Not anymore, in any case. I showed them, the first week I got here, that though I may be called _Passerotta_ , I am no less vicious.

My head aches as I try to recall more. There was an exercise this morning. I believe I was meant to team up with the two boys to complete a task. And yet... the specific memories evade me.

I feel the footsteps behind the door before I hear them. My body reacts in spite of myself. When the door opens, I try to run through my drills. What to do when an intruder enters your space. Vittorio showed me some basics, "Because the world is not always kind to the fairer sex," he said. My body relaxes when I see Yasmin. Her dark, foreign skin sets me at ease.

"You are awake," she states simply, leaving the door behind her. She carried a tray with bandages and tools that do not look kind. "How do you do?" 

Her accents always calms me. I have seen her give examples on how to decapitate a man. It is hard in this instance to reconcile that violent predisposition with her present calm demeanour.

"My head hurts," I reply, trying to massage my temples. As soon as my fingers feel pressure, I snap my hands away. The pain there had been absent until just now and subsided just as rapidly. Yasmin chuckles, low and raspy.

"Yes, you had quite a fall, little bird," she says, setting the tray on the bed at my feet. "The boys were not fair with you. I should remind them where they are." I say nothing, but wish she would remind me, as well.

"Yasmin," I start, placing a hand on her forearm. She had reached for something that looks like scissors, but I know better. She stills and looks at me. "What happened? I can't... I can't remember a thing."

She chuckles again, but the difference is noticeable. It sounds sad, apologetic. "Head injuries can do that," she explains proceedings slowly. She peels the linen sheets off my legs to inspect the bandages there. Yasmin hums pleasantly, covers my legs again. "You fell from a high wall in the court," she continues, gently taking my left hand in hers. "One of the boys pushed you. You hit your head when you fell. We were surprised you did not bleed."

Well the rest of me obviously did, I want to say, but I say my tongue. Yasmin gently begins to unravel the bandages on my hand. She starts at my wrist, her fingers cold and gentle on my skin.

"I do not know what possessed you to do so," Yasmin continues. The bandages catch of something; a scab, perhaps. It stings and I hiss. "But you grabbed onto one of the tree branches. You missed, clearly, but your hands are full of wood."

As she unravels down to my palm, I see what she means. There are large splinters of wood there. I frown at them, wonder why they did not remove those before wrapping my hands.

"Pain is a good teacher," Yasmin explains shortly when she notices my expression. "Action without thought rarely leaves one unscathed."

She rest of the bandages on my hand are caught on too many things. Yasmin picks up the same scissors-looking tool and gently turns my hand. She begins cutting away. The top of my left hand seems mercifully bare and spared from harm. From the tray, she grabs a damp rag. It feels lukewarm. She places it against my palm. A minute or two later, she turned my hand over again, and Yasmin resumes peeling the bandages off my hand. The scabs have softened enough that though it still stings and hurts terribly, the pain is not as great.

The damage is considerable. The rough skin on my fingers has lot withstood the bark of the tree. It looks red, angry and frayed. Thankfully, my palm only has a little over half a dozen splinters. Yasmin clucks her tongue and reaches for a small pair of tongs and begins extracting. She frequently dabs at my hand with the damp cloth to blot away the blood that pools into the small holes left behind.

Once the left hand is done, I feel myself relax and melt into my cot. My shoulders slump and I close my eyes. I hear Yasmin chuckle and she pats my left thigh.

"Come now," she urges, moving the tray of tools to the ground. "Sit up. We still have your right hand to fix. Slowly now."

My head pounds as I move to sit, slowly dragging my legs to the edge of the cot. The floor feels cold under my feet. When Yasmin reaches for my left arm, her hand is warm. I keep my eyes closed, but frown. I feel a hand on my forehead, and it feels freezing cold again.

"Dammit, she's running a fever." I hear a man curse under his breath. It isn't Vittorio, or Michele, or either of the two boys. 

The same frozen hand brushes the hair out of my face. Which cannot possibly be real; Yasmin cut my hair the day after Vittorio brought me back.

"...rotta. _Passerotta_ , can you hear me?"

I open my eyes, and it is still Yasmin. But the room no longer exists. It is she and I and an eternity of white as far as I can see. The cot beneath me feels significantly softer and has more give than it should.

"Yasmin, what is going on?"

There is some confused chatter around me. I do not hear Yasmin's smooth voice. Hands grope at me. It feels like being lost at sea, for a brief moment. There is a sharp pain at my elbow. I try to contest, but the words die in my throat. I cannot recall them or pronounce them.

I wake up in a strange room with no idea how much time has passed.

Though, no, not really. This is my room. Desmond is at my bedside again. He sits, but rests with his torso stretched out at my feet. He snores quietly. He seems far more peaceful than I feel.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, this was started back in 2009. My style, fluidity and vocabulary, have much since evolved. I may be tempted to rework this entire work, and if anyone feels the unrelenting urge to beta this, then please. By all means.


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